


Methuselah

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Friendship/Love, Guilt, M/M, Self-Reflection, Supernatural Elements, Surrealism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3304532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It's named after the oldest person to ever live.” Cliff’s hand skipped down the old bark. “Imagine living that long, Lars. To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kali Ma

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, not to Lars, who hated hiking and the outdoors and everything that had to do with the word ‘camping,’ except Cliff wanted to see it, and whatever Cliff wanted to do, even in the wintertime, Lars saw to it that it happened. 

“It's named after the oldest person to ever live.” Cliff’s hand skipped down the old bark. “Imagine living that long, Lars. To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”

“That’d suck.”

“Right?” 

“Glad I’m not a tree.”

“You’re too short to be one.”

“Thank you for pointing that out to me, genius.”

“And loud and fidgety and really—”

“Oi!”

Cliff laughed. He pushed his hand back into his coat pocket. Puffs of air oozed from his mouth as he took a few long steps backwards, stopping a good two feet away from the tree’s base. He tilted his head all the way back, his eyes big and lips curved into a big, childish smile—the living embodiment of joy, and wonder, and no one else was around to see this look, but Lars alone. 

A sharp, cold breeze forced another shiver out of Lars. “Godfuckdammit.”

“Quit your bitching.” 

“I’m cold, you dick!”

“You’re Danish.”

“So?!”

Cliff’s head tilted down. He stared at him. “I thought you said Danish people can handle real cold.” And grinned again.

“Okay, first off, 30 degrees is not cold, 0 is. Second off, fuck you for throwing that back into my face, because you’re the reason I’m freezing to begin with! You didn’t let me fucking get my winter coat! You didn’t even let me pack right!”

“I gave you a blanket.”

“And made me walk ten fucking miles, in said cold, wearing jeans, and a t-shirt, in said fucking blanket!”

“It was only a mile.”

“Bullshit one mile.” He tucked the blanket even tighter around him. His teeth chattered, saying, “You done yet?”

Cliff looked back up again. “Nope.”

“Fandens, Cliff, it’s just a fucking tree. What’re you gonna do, marry it?”

“And make you best man, of course.”

“Fuck you.”

Cliff laughed again.

 

*

 

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, not to Cliff, and he passed by it while Lars stayed behind, staring at Cliff’s back. 

A good distance away, Cliff turned around and said, “Fuck’s taking you?”

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

Another spring shower reared its pretty head in shapeshifting grey-black clouds, blocking the sun and casting darker shadows on Cliff’s face. 

Then Cliff said, “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

Cliff sighed.

“What do I do?”

Droplets on Cliff’s beak nose and upper lip. Lars found black in Cliff’s eyes. 

“Tell me,” Lars said.

“What for? You never stop.”

He turned to the tree. Its ashen green leaves swayed and creaked and groaned no more in a large gust of wind. 

 

*

 

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, but Cliff was drawn to it, and Lars followed suit, since they were the two left behind, while James and Kirk trudged ahead. 

Cliff examined the old branches and bark. He picked a large chunk out of it, said “Barely holding itself together, uh?” and took another piece out. And another.

The summer heat killed Lars’s thin, pale body like it killed the tree’s leaves, sullen sunken branches beaming up to a sky its known a hundred millennia or so. There was no rain though, not a cloud above, and Lars felt a little sad. It needed help. A needed break. 

“Hey!” Cliff slapped his back. “Move it already!”

He collapsed to his knees.

James and Kirk pointed and laughed—at something. Not him. 

Lars stared at his dirty hands, his fingers scratching into the dirt. 

 

*

 

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, not to Lars, who hated hiking and the outdoors and everything that had to do with the word ‘camping,’ except Cliff wanted to see it, and Lars was bored enough.

 

The sun transformed into the moon. The sky changed December snow to simple rain.

Dead brown leaves left Methuselah’s branches, fluttering into the air, down to the ground, across the mountains, until it landed at Lars’s feet, miles and miles away. 

Lars picked it up and crushed it in his hand.

The sprinkles turned denim blue and bright red. 

 

*

 

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, not to Lars, not to Cliff, not to anyone. 

 

*

 

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree Cliff’s friend Jim Martin said was called Methuselah. “You gotta go see it, it’s fucking cool,” and whatever Jim said, Cliff had to try, so they went. They being all four of them, and Jim, and Dave DiDonato and a bunch of other people Lars only met once. James was happy to hang out in the wilderness, Kirk was afraid of being forced to hunt and skin a rabbit again, and Lars—Lars sat in the back of the truck and stared at the open February sky. 

They did hunt, and Kirk did throw up, and James became one of the boys again, and they all ventured out towards the tree, and Jim pointed it out saying, “That’s it.” And no one gave a shit, most giving it a once over and saying, “Well alright, that’s cool, hey, nice, yeah, alright let’s go, I’m starving.” And they left. They went. Only Cliff stayed behind. 

Lars, the last to leave, turned around and said, “Fuck’s taking you?”

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

Cliff walked up to the base of the tree. His fingers picked out a piece of old bark and played with it.

The sky turned grey, and Lars said, “Move it already!”

“Quit your bitching.”

“You always do this.”

“Do what?”

Lars sighed. 

Another piece pulled out of the tree. “Barely holding itself together, uh?” Cliff took a step back, craning his neck all the way back.

“Fandens, Cliff, it’s just a fucking tree. What’re you gonna do, marry it?”

“And make you best man.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Go back then.”

“And what if you get lost, uh? I won’t hear the end of it from the others.”

“Suit yourself.” 

In the time that passed, Lars fidgeted in place, and Cliff stood in place like a perfect statue, his eyes big and wide like he was on one of his highs, but there was something more there. Something deeper that Lars couldn’t pin-point, couldn’t understand—was it joy, was it wonder—and he found himself, after a while and his skin turned to gooseflesh and his face felt cold and his breath turned into puffs of white that he realized he was staring too, just like Cliff was, but it was at Cliff. Cliff, who observed this tree with a look no one else was around to see, a look maybe no one else had ever seen. And it made him feel… 

Cliff tilted his head forward. He lifted a hand and lay it over one of the holes he created in the tree’s side.

“It's named after the oldest person to ever live.” Cliff’s hand skipped down the old bark. “Imagine living that long, Lars. To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”

He watched Cliff slide his hand away, turn on his heel and come his way.

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

The wind groaned and the tree moaned and little rain began to fall, the drops landing on Cliff’s beak nose and upper lip. They met stares, the sky no longer blue but a nice shade of gray that fit Cliff’s denim blue so well.

And Cliff said—

 

*

 

“He never said anything. He walked right by me… and that was it.”


	2. Inspiral

Tuesday evening at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, Lars met Cliff for the first time. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme. Ron was still at work, Dave was out scoring chicks, and James didn’t really feel like going out, but Lars lured him into the truck with the promise of drinks and Mexican food. Tuesday evening at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, Lars met Cliff for the first time. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme. Ron was doing a graveyard shift, Dave was out scoring drugs, and James wanted to stay inside, but Lars badgered him enough to get outside. Tuesday evening at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go, Lars met Cliff for the first time. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme. Ron wasn’t around, and neither was Dave. Only James, and there wasn’t any drama or conflict or fuss about going out. They went out. 

The first two bands on stage were nothing special. Trauma was after them, and they were okay. They were nothing special either. But the real star was Cliff, something he had never seen before. All wild red hair and denim and eyes rolling into the back of his head, turning the bass into a wild beast of guitar wail for minutes. 

James and Lars dropped everything and said, “We have to get him into the band.”

James told Lars, “I want him in the band,” and Lars did anything James wanted. 

James wanted Cliff, but was too chickenshit to say anything, so Lars went to talk to Cliff for him.

It was never James, and never Lars. They stayed quiet and mingled with the crowd, observing Cliff, and might have hung out with him and the guys in Trauma later. Another fuzzy memory on top of many others, and how Lars got Cliff’s number was another fuzzy memory too. But he got the number and he did call Cliff and he courted him and came up to Berkeley and it was all fun and games and attraction and total love at first sight— _no no no no no_ —and then they met and fucked and kissed and—

Cliff was on their radar, but Cliff had a good thing going on with his band, “and we might have a record deal coming soon, I don’t know,” he said over the phone, maybe. Fuzzy, fuzzy memories. 

Ron was a big presence in James’s life. He was there through all the bad times in James’s life, with his mom, and his family. Getting rid of him was never, ever as easy as others thought. Maybe he left because of Dave. Maybe he left because of the amp. 

Memories, on top of memories.

All those memories.

But James needed Lars more than Ron, they had a different vibe than Ron and James did, and in the end, Ron found out somehow on his own they were courting Cliff. That was the end. Lars talked to Ron about it, and there might have been a vibe of _fuck you, I was with James first,_ or it was something he wanted to believe, something he thought deep down but maybe it wasn’t real, maybe it was something he assumed and wanted it to be truth, but it didn’t matter because Ron said his goodbye in the form of a get the fuck out of my house to James, and so did the guys, by moving on up to San Francisco—going on up to San Francisco—for a jam. Not the move. Never the instant move. The jam. A jam at Mark Whittaker’s house, at 3132 Carlson Boulevard. 

The jam was good. Dave did good. James did good. He did so-so. It was a lot of measuring up, a lot of posturing, Cliff auditioning them as much as they were auditioning him, an interview with their instruments and their music. 

And Cliff stared at him a lot. 

That Lars remembered, very well. 

They went back to LA, and worked their asses off for six weeks. He did so many paper routes to make the money needed. James was at the sticker factory—maybe, or he quit, or something. Something, to get money. Dave definitely panhandled. 

He and James shared a room at Mark’s house in El Cerrito. Their names ended up on the rental contract. Dave stayed at Cliff’s grandma’s house. There was no room for him. Maybe Mark didn’t like Dave. Maybe he knew about Dave’s destructive ways. 

Cliff might’ve offered Dave the place. Maybe.

They bonded over weed, a lot. Shared a lot of time together.

Those early days, watching Dave and Cliff bond, while he and James hung out and wrote music and tried to make new roots in a new place they had no idea about. 

He’d find Cliff staring though, at times. It took years to pass to realize, Yes, he was looking at me, in those moments they had shared. Moments playing music. Moments watching TV. At shows, at gigs. Or maybe not that much. But he remembered that look, the same look Cliff gave him the first time they rehearsed, on December 28th, two days after his 19th birthday. 

_Did we celebrate my birthday?_

_Who did I celebrate it with?_

_Was James there?_

_Did James care?_

Maybe. 

Maybe Cliff had cared. Would have cared. Maybe they would have gone out, got to know each other better, kissed, fucked later. Or maybe they did. Go out. Maybe. 

There were drinks, though. That was there. The alcohol. Drinks a plenty. Torben and Lone, I think, celebrated it with him. Or from afar. There was celebration with his parents. 

James… maybe cared. Dave sort of did. 

Or did not. 

_Was there a birthday anyway?_

_What did I do?_

_What happened?_

So many fuzzy memories, lined on top of each other, like static on the television, the lines blurred and congealed into a static grey soup. Or static electricity. Scrub scrub scrub and _bzz_. A shock to the system. A shock to the heart. 

But he turned 19. He did turn 19. And they were there. Somewhere. Somewhere else. 

_Did I even tell James?_

_Did anyone know?_

_I don’t know._

Lars closed his eyes.

_I don’t fucking know—_

“Hey Lars?”

He looked up, and there was Cliff, looking at him from beyond his kit, with James and Dave flanking his side, holding guitars like weapons. 

“You ready?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” 

Lars lifted his sticks and counted off. 


	3. Epicycle

There was sunlight this time. Lars looked down at his fingers, at the way the light spread across his skin, how it warmed and tickled his skin. The sensation of actual tickling. 

Youth. And age. Aging later. 

He turned his hand into a fist. Clenched and unclenched it. 

Leaves outside the window. September—no, October. November. 

Autumn. All autumn outside. Falling, leaves falling, down to the ground, outside there was a road, a truck, James’s truck, U-Haul van, _is this El Cerrito yes no yes it is has to be needs to be—_

The whole room lurched forward.

Lars went with the momentum. 

Up and out. Down and gone. Shucked to the side, shucked to the other side. 

Another place. 

_November. Let it be November._

Changes upon changes. Memories upon memories. It stacked up, it led up, it grew higher and higher, into the clouds, into the sky, into nothingness. 

Ensnarled and ensnared and _waiting for what, waiting for what._

_Change._

_Different and..._

_Please, be November._

_Not September._

_Anything except—_

He found nothingness again. In transition, again. 

This was the day of the time in the age of place. A place of nowhere. Of being and existing. 

Ten minutes felt like ten hours in this place. Compared to the other places, the other… whatever they were, this was nice. It felt nice, even though he couldn’t pinpoint where. Even though he couldn’t actually see, or really feel. Except he could. Maybe. 

A safety in nothingness. A safety in another change. 

_Don’t be September._

_Maybe November._

_No… no, not November. Let it be—_

“Are you done yet?”

Lars looked up.

Cliff stood in the doorway.

Bedroom. El Cerrito. 

He looked over his shoulder and saw leaves on the trees. Sunlight came into the room, landing on his hand. Tickling sensation. Warming sensation. His skin. His mattress. 

“Well?”

“Yeah.” Lars pushed up from the bed, onto his feet. “Let’s go.” 

They walked out the door. Dave and James waited in the car. 

March. The Stone. The first gig, with this line up. Like this. 

March was good. 

*

The first gig was never the highlight. The aftermath was. The drinking, the camaraderie, the beginning of friendships that would last the test of time. James, coming out of his shell a little. Dave, soaking up all the adulation like he did with Riot back in LA. He himself did the same as Dave. Cliff drank and mingled with local friends. It was good. It was fun. 

Then came the second gig, at the Stone. And Cliff kissed him that evening, for the first time. Confessed his feelings. Said, “I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid my eyes on you,” and Lars fell for it, fell hard for him, and said, “Me too.” 

They made out in the back of the Stone that evening. Anyone could have walked in. Cliff put it a stop to it though. Cliff made sure it was only a teaser of things to come.

It wasn’t long until they fucked. Later that evening, really. Lars’s first time. It hurt. It was good though. Beautiful. Cliff was the sweetest guy he ever, ever had. 

This time, Lars said, “I love you.”

This time, Cliff said, “I love you too.”

*

The first gig was never the highlight. The second gig was, at the Stone. Cliff kissed him that evening, for the first time. Confessed, “I’ve been wanting to do that to you since the moment I saw you.” And Lars laughed. And they kissed some more. 

It wasn’t long until they were fucking. Not Lars’s first time. Not by a long shot, what with all the guys he made out with back in Europe, and lost his virginity at the tennis school he attended in Florida, before moving out to California. But Cliff was gentle, and sweet, and said sweet words, and went slow. 

When they finished, Cliff said, “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Want anything?”

“Water?”

“Sure.”

So Cliff got him water from the tap in the bathroom, and they shared a cup. Cliff stayed the evening, beside Lars, holding Lars in his arms, and it was nice. It felt nice.

Lars leaned his head onto Cliff’s chest, hearing his steady heartbeat.

*

Then the heart stopped beating.

It began again, in another March. 

*

Cliff stood in the doorway and asked, “Are you done yet?” 

The tickling, warm sensation on his hands. The bed, and the room. 

Cliff. Staring at him. Looking at him.

Lars nodded.

Off they went.

The first gig was never the highlight.

The second gig, they kissed. 

They had no sex. Cliff never said anything. 

Lars did. Lars said, “What was that for?”

Cliff said, “I dunno.”

And that was it.

*

At the second gig, they kissed for the first time. When they pulled away, Lars asked, “What was that for?” Cliff said, “I felt like it.” It was good enough answer for Lars, and this time, he was the one who shoved his lips over Cliff’s and kissed him back. 

They ended up in bed later that evening, Lars blowing Cliff and swallowing him. Swallowing what he could. Cliff jerked him off. It was good. It was nice. 

Lars left him on the bed and wished him, “Good night.”

Cliff yawned and pulled the covers over his body and his head.

*

At the second gig, they kissed for the first time. When they pulled away, Lars asked, “What was that for?” Cliff said, “What, you didn’t like it?” It was better answer for Lars, and Cliff was the one who shoved his lips over Lars’s and kissed him again. 

They ended up in bed a few days later, Lars blowing Cliff and swallowing him. Swallowing what he could. Cliff jerked him off. It was good, and nice.

Lars didn’t leave the bed. Cliff’s arms wouldn’t let him go. 

“Stay the night.”

So he did, and wished Cliff, “Good night.”

Cliff yawned and mumbled back, “Good night.”

*

At the second gig, Lars and Cliff kissed for the first time. They were drunk. It was an accident. It was awkward. It felt weird. 

Cliff apologized and said, “I’m sorry.”

Lars said, “It’s okay.”

*

At the second gig, Lars and Cliff kissed for the first time, and this time, Lars turned it into a full-blown make out session, that turned into a blowjob, that anyone could have walked into and seen, but when someone did, they were done, and Cliff was leaning against the wall, dazed, while Lars, the knees of his jeans dirty, looked at the guy and said, “Yeah, what?”

*

At the second gig, Lars and Cliff kissed for the first time. Somewhere alone. Somewhere in the back. Not a lot of privacy. Or maybe there was. 

But they said nothing. They never said anything. 

Cliff stared. Lars stared. 

Lars’s lips burned from the kiss. 

Then someone came in and said, “You guys seen James?” Or, “You guys seen Dave?” Or, “You guys…” Something about moving equipment. Something about the gig itself. 

It was enough for Cliff to turn away and leave. Enough for Lars to ignore and go into business mode.

His lips stayed burnt the rest of the evening.

*

Lars looked up from the bed. Cliff, in the doorway, asked, “Are you ready yet?”

His lips still burned. 

Cliff fizzled in and out like static. 

He shut his eyes and the room lurched forward again.

*

Second gig. First kiss. 

Cliff said nothing. Lars said nothing.

They stared.

Someone came in and said, “You guys…”

Cliff turned away. Lars turned away.

The rest of the evening blurred into nothingness and meaninglessness. 

*

Lars woke up and found James sleeping on his mattress on the opposite end of the room they shared, his limbs sprawled out across in weird angles. Strands of blond hair rose and fell with his breathing, over his wide open mouth. 

He stared for a little bit, watching the sight of his blond hair in the sunlight, and then turned away to find the calendar.

March. Still March.

March, the next day.

He closed his eyes and laid back. 

In eight weeks, this would be all over. In eight weeks, this would cease to exist, and it would be onto the next phase. The next part of what this life should be. 

New York. The record gig. 

Maybe.

It was like floating, like weightlessness, this whole thing. Hopping from one universe to the next. One plane of existence to the other. 

Like the clouds floating above him, in the sky above, the world above. Memories on top of memories. Worlds upon worlds. 

If this was that. If this was… 


	4. Mithridate

The chaos of spring. Brisk April wind and bright April sun. Blooming flowers, blooming trees, and James asking him, “Is it done yet? Are we doing it? What did they say?”

Except he never said that. James looked at him and his look said it instead. 

Sometimes. Sometimes, Lars got the looks. 

It was Cliff who asked, “Is it true?” “New York?” “When?” Cliff, who said, “Wow. Cool.” When it all came together. When Lars finalized things with Johnny Z all the way back in Old Bridge, New Jersey, just outside Elizabeth. Or Clark. Close to Elizabeth. 

_Dave…_

Doesn’t matter.

_I don’t want him there._

And so he wasn’t. Dave was never there. It was James and Cliff and him— _oh don’t be stupid_ —and Dave was there too, somewhere off, in the background, in the distance. 

It was Cliff that mattered. And James. They mattered. New York mattered.

Six weeks into the remaining eight. Two weeks to go. One week to prepare and get to New York. One week of rehearsals, of finding the other guy, of two shows and Dave— _next_ —Dave to Kirk, the end.

But before that. Before this.

_I want…_

Lars watched Cliff and James talk in the living room. They shared a case of Bud and a bag of popcorn between them on the couch. _Airplane!_ on the TV. Cliff laughing. James laughing. 

They laughed together. They met stares. 

The laughter died, and then, Cliff leaned in. 

He watched James’s eyes widen. 

Their lips met. 

A nice sight. 

And it got better when Cliff dug his hands into James’s blond hair, adding more pressure, making James feel it—a little forceful, a little demanding, and James, being James, struggled, pushed at Cliff’s shoulders, and Cliff, being Cliff, backed away.

James said, “The fuck are you doing?”

“I believe I was kissing you.”

“No shit! What the fuck!”

Lars frowned. 

Cliff dug his hands into James’s hair no threaded his hands into James’s hair better gentle, easy, not to spook him. Gentle kiss. Better kiss. There. 

James was still spooked. His eyes didn’t close like Cliff’s did in the kiss. They stayed awake the whole time, but he didn’t push back. He didn’t move. 

He kept staring, when the kiss ended. 

On the television screen, that one character said, “Surely, you can’t be serious.”

Leslie Nielsen’s character said, “I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley.”

James’s lips quirked up. 

Cliff smiled too. 

They broke down laughing. Collapsing together, back onto the couch. Cliff against James. James against Cliff. Popcorn, gone to the ground. Remote, discarded. Beer, left on the table.

Then they made out. James liked it. Lars knew then when James liked certain things. Watching James’s old girlfriends helped. And like that one chick, that meth addict girlfriend James swore wasn’t a meth addict, Cliff pulled away from the kiss and attacked James’s ear, sucking in the lobe, nipping at it with his teeth, slipping it between his teeth, licking, sucking, circling the tip of his tongue around it, and James turned to putty. All those moans. 

Their bodies fell back, onto the couch. James’s body, beneath Cliff’s, on the couch.

James’s shaky hand snuck behind Cliff’s neck, under his hair. He arched his neck. He tilted his head more to Cliff’s mouth. 

Cliff’s hand snuck between them to cup his crotch and squeeze. 

A sharp gasp. James bucked up. Twisted his lips into his teeth. 

Another squeeze. Another moan, long and drawn out. 

James brought his other hand into play, sliding it up Cliff’s back, to the ends of his hair. A good suck on his earlobe, and he crunched his fingers into that hair, and groaned, “More.”

Cliff looked at him and said, “You got it.”

Cliff looked at him and nodded.

Cliff breathed into his ear, “Turn around.”

Clothes, lube, maybe lube, spit, whatever, prep prep prep, come on, and Lars watched Cliff bend James over and slide into him, nice and slow. Watched him ease James down, heard him whisper, “Deep breath,” and James clenched his teeth, clenched his ass, clenched his fists and Cliff sighed and shook his head and calmed James down by stroking his cock, sucking on his ear again, tilting his head back to kiss him because that’s how James is, James would, Cliff would, and when James was calm enough, when James was comfortable and relaxed enough, and Cliff knew, Cliff finally went for it, and he pushed in. 

The image itself, of James, young James, bent over the couch, bent at the waist, hips tilted back and groaning while Cliff eased his big, long cock into him—that was almost enough for Lars to jerk off. To maybe join in. Or restart it all. 

Instead, Lars crossed his arms, leaned against the wall of the living room and watched them slow fuck on that couch, in the middle of the day, with _Airplane!_ on their shitty old television. 

A beautiful sight. A good sight, with great sounds. The way James grunted and moaned. How he gritted his teeth and grunted and groaned, and how Cliff went slow, the whole way. 

James’s hair obscured his face, just like it always did, but Cliff leaned over his back and pushed the strands away to kiss his cheek, to make them kiss while he eased in, all the way in, and when he was in, they made out a little, until James was relaxed again. 

Maybe it was James’s first time. Maybe James never had someone before.

Cliff asked, “You okay?”

James moaned, “So… big.”

This was his first time. James’s first time.

Cliff asked, “First time?” And James nodded. 

They kissed again. And again. 

Cliff started his movements, nice and slow. 

Slow. And easy. So James felt every, single movement. So James would remember.

The first time. The very first. 

Lars’s chest ached. 

James whined a little when Cliff sped up. James clawed at the armrest of the couch and buried his face into the carpet and cried out a little, muffled shriek when he came into Cliff’s hand and over the side of the couch. 

Cliff pulled out and came over his ass and a little of his back. 

They kissed. They cleaned up. Cliff helped James clean up. James cleaned Cliff up. They didn’t bother with clean up no no they have to clean up so they cleaned up and… 

Lars sighed closed his eyes. He rubbed his fingers over the bridge of his nose. 

_Goddamnit._

_Again._

_Do it again._

When he looked again, James and Cliff sat on the couch, clothes on, the beer and the popcorn between them, laughing at the television screen.

“Surely you can’t be serious,” said the TV.

“I am serious,” said Leslie Nielsen’s character. “And don’t call me Shirley.” 

James laughed hard. Cliff laughed hard. 

They laughed. They shared looks. The laughter died and then—

_Fuck it._

Lars turned away, from an empty couch, and a blank TV screen. 

*

The road to New York.

_No, New Jersey._

New Jersey-New York— _does it even matter, no make it right, do it right, it was_ —New Jersey. 

*

The road to New Jersey. More April chaos. Dave was out of control. Dave was a ruffian, a miscreant, someone who didn’t belong, someone who drank too much, someone who scared Lars and James and maybe Cliff and definitely Mark Whittaker. Probably would scare Johnny Z too. 

Dave saved their lives driving them safe and sound through the black ice of Wyoming. They missed a semi-truck coming their way.

James said he fell asleep at the wheel.

Arguing. Cliff, standing on the sidelines, watching. 

The truck and the U-Haul, off the side of the road. The U-Haul almost on its side. Ice, cold, maybe rain would come, maybe snow.

Or the morning would come. 

The morning.

_No._

Dave shouted, “There was fucking ice!”

James shouted, “You fucking moron!”

Then Cliff turned to him.

Cliff stared at him. 

Lars dove backwards into the nothingness. 

*

Two, three, four more times making it into and out of Wyoming. Each time, James and Dave shouted at each other. In an argument, in anger, in spite. In relief, hugging, maybe kissing, by accident. In wondering where the fuck they were, “this map doesn’t tell us shit.”

Each time, Lars got more and more drunk.

The next time, he landed out in the road, landing on his side.

Cold pavement. Cold ice. 

Dave shouted, “What the fuck, Lars!”

Then lights headed his way. Right for him. Straight at him.

Each time, when the lights came closer, someone picked him up. Someone shoved him out of the way. Someone didn’t get injured. No, no one got injured. No one would. Except himself. It made sense, to get a little hurt, to injure himself. Just a little. 

James held him in his arms and said, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Dave grabbed his shoulders and said, “You fucking idiot!”

Cliff looked him in the eye and said, “You okay?”

Lars stared back.

Cliff, in all the darkness of Wyoming, the empty night sky and the bright, beautiful stars dancing and twinkling behind him. Darkness over his face. Darkness over his lips, and in his eyes. But the moon was bright enough. The stars, bright enough. So he could see and watch Cliff ask again, “Hey. You alright, man?”

Each time, he wanted to say, “No.”

Each time, he said, instead, “I’m fine.”

*

“We have to get rid of him.” The consensus, after two days, three days, on the road. The decision was made in Ohio. Or Indiana. The Midwest. Near Lake Eerie. At a truckstop. An end.

Or not.

But it was somewhere there, before New Jersey. The decision about Dave. 

Dave went to get donuts. Or coffee. Food. Weed. A piss. Everything. And Cliff went to smoke. 

James and he sat in the truck, alone, and James said, “We gotta tell Johnny.” James said, “You do it.” James gave him a look that said it all. 

Cliff later said, when he came back from his smoke, “Hey, I’m new you guys. I’m not part of this.”

Or it was implied. Or it was obvious and they didn’t have to ask.

But Lars did, and Cliff said, “Hey, I’m not part of this, I’m new,” and Lars agreed and that was it. 

And somewhere on the road, before New Jersey, Lars called Kirk on a pay-phone, and they bought Kirk’s one-way flight in. The last of their money, on that flight. Without Dave knowing. 

Lars watched Dave as they drove out of Ohio. 

Dave glanced at him and asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

He blew out some smoke and handed him over the bunt of his blunt. “Want the rest?”

Lars shook his head no.

“Suit yourself.”

Lars looked back at the road. 

Nothingness. 

He looked back at the driver’s seat.

James glanced at him and asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hm.” And he looked back to the road. 

That evening, Lars sat in the back of the U-Haul and watched Dave and Cliff fuck in the dingy yellow light, while their equipment and their suitcases rattled around, side-by-side. It was sad, watching them. There was a goodbye on Cliff’s face. Dave’s face, Lars couldn’t read. Lars didn’t care. But Cliff was sad. Every time, Cliff was sad. 

*

They arrived, prepared-not-prepared for the Northeast weather, and Lars grabbed Johnny and told him, in private, “We’re sacking our guitarist. New guy is coming in a week.” 

He didn’t grab him immediately. It was later, that evening. I think. Johnny understood, and said, “Well, okay. When you telling Dave?”

Two gigs, in New York, back to back. The last two. The end of the eight week line up. 

Dave and he smoked together, alone, after the show in Brooklyn. The very last. He felt sad. Maybe, he felt sad. 

It was sad, anyway, doing this.

They said nothing between them. They smoked, until it was done.

Lars led them back to the rehearsal room in Jamaica, Queens.

That evening, Lars lay on his mattress, and watched Dave and James fuck in the darkness of the room. And it was interesting, watching the way Dave and James fucked. James on top, Dave on the bottom. Dave on top, James on the bottom. On all fours. James on his knees, sucking Dave’s dick. James fucking Dave’s throat. Hair pulling, Dave snarling, “You like that, bitch?” and James grunting and Dave grunting and James scratching Dave’s back, and then James fucked Dave, James was the one fucking Dave, fucking him face first into the hardwood floor, not caring Anthrax would hear them two doors down, or the lady across the hall would hear them, or the people below, or the people outside, because he wanted, and needed, to make Dave suffer, to make Dave remember, “I own you,” sneering into his neck, “I control you,” and he came deep into his ass, flinging his hair and neck back, digging his nails into his hip bones. 

Then Dave did the same to James. More violent than James. Choking his throat. Kissing him hard enough to bleed. Saying the same, sneering, “I own you, I control you,” and going even further and shrieking, “Mine!” when he came, and James moaned, James whined, James arched his back off the mattress, off the wooden floor, his forehead pressed painful onto the wooden floor, a painful angle, his legs twisted like his lips, cringing, aching, as he came over Dave’s hand and a little on Dave’s chest and face. 

No kisses. Never any kisses. It didn’t work with them. It didn’t fit. 

Still. 

Personal porno. 

Deepest want. 

So James and Dave kissed. James on top, Dave on bottom. Dave on top, James on bottom. Rolling around. Making out. Tongue. Lots of tongue. Lars saw their tongues. Saliva and spit and come between their naked bodies and sweat and moonlight and—

Cliff, in the darkness, said, “What the fuck?”

James and Dave gasped.

Lars sighed, rolling onto his side, his back to the three of them. 

The shouts instantly died. 

The peaceful nothingness behind his eyelids. 

When he turned back around, he found James grunting and Dave grunting and James scratching Dave’s back. Dave grunting and James grunting and Dave scratching James’s back. No Cliff in sight. Nothing but them. 

They came again. They kissed again. 

More kissing. Soft whispers. He missed their words. 

Doesn’t matter. 

Dave turned away from James and looked at Lars. 

Lars looked at Dave.

And Dave said—

“No warning? No second chance?”

Lars shook his head no. They all shook their heads no. And it was James who escorted Dave away. James, who looked indifferent. Who looked a little sad. Looked either way. Looked both. 

Cliff was nowhere. 

He watched the two of them go, and once alone, he rubbed his face and blocked out all of the sunlight.

*

Fast forward. James and him getting hammered. Kirk coming in, saying, “How rock ‘n roll.” Or not saying it. Definitely staring at them. 

Rehearsal. Good rehearsal. Kirk clicked, they all clicked, off to tell Johnny Z, “let’s get that record made,” everyone excited, everyone happy, and that was the end of that. 

*

Blurry memories. Fuzzy memories. Static, again, the fast forward going too fast, but Lars paused it at the right moment, after the recording, after it was done, before it was done, before, before, has to be before, before the record was done, almost done, close to being done. Cliff and Kirk were going back home on that three-day Greyhound bus, while James and he stayed behind to finish the recording with its final mix. 

It was quick, and fast, a blip really. Should’ve been a blip.

They stood face to face in the rehearsal room, alone. James was elsewhere. Somewhere off. Kirk had gone downstairs. And they were alone. 

“Have fun,” Cliff said, his duffle bag packed and slung over his shoulder. 

“You too.”

“Yeah, right.”

They shared a laugh.

The laughter died off.

Cliff stared at him and Lars stared back and always staring always looking why Lars fidgeted and mumbled, “Well, see ya.”

“See ya.”

Then Cliff leaned in.

Lars stared.

His eyes stayed wide open. Cliff’s eyes were shut. 

He saw up close his eyelashes, his skin, the dryness between his eyebrows. Felt the prickle of his moustache, the pressure of his lips, the dry chapped softness, that weird combination, the breath coming from his nose and exhaling and warming over his own upper lip.

The soft smack of their lips parting. The fading warmth. 

His lips burned. 

Cliff opened his eyes. 

Cliff, still looking at him, even as he turned around.

Lars, staring at his back, staring ahead, even as Cliff shut the door, and all he saw for a few minutes after was the door. 

Just like then.

_Just like then._

_And I could do it again._

_I could make it happen again._

_I could…_

Lars shut his eyes and turned away.

_And I can’t._

*

Lars sat in silence, in dark nothingness, as fuzzy memory after fuzzy memory filtered in and out. He juggled and played and stretched and molded and tinkered, and then gave up, because his lips still burnt, and they would keep burning, like they were meant to. Supposed to.

So James came into the room, on time, in the sunlight, in the middle of the day, and said, “Hey, you wanna get hammered?” Lars almost said, “No.” But he followed up with the usual, “Yes.” And they did, drinking vodka all over New York—sight-seeing New York, all the way up to the Empire State Building, and as Lars viewed Manhattan, across Downtown, Uptown, and all the districts Lars could remember then, he remembered why he said yes: because it was nice. It was comfort. Distraction, needed distraction, from everything. 

James said nothing. But his looks said it. And James loved it. 

The sun went down. The sky changed colors. Lars watched the sun transform into the moon. 

Then it transformed back into the sun. Then back to the moon. Purple and black and a lit up Manhattan to sun and concrete and bluish-orange-pink. 

Back and forth, forth and back, the same people, the same place. Locked in a moment, this very moment, because it was needed. Because it was nice. For now. 


	5. Fixed Point

Moments upon moments, memories upon memories. Static and fuzz. Stacking up, piled up, one after another, all points on the line, points to make, to check off, one by one. 

And this one was coming. Another to check off. Another to pass over. Another to live. 

_I don’t want it._

Cliff stared. 

Lars stared. 

_I don’t want this._

Everything lurched forward. 

Blackness, and darkness, and nothingness. 

When it all righted again, Lars found himself naked and laying on his back, his legs wide open, his arms over his head. 

Cliff looked down at him. 

_No._

Cliff stared.

_NO._

Cliff said—

Lars shut his eyes and shoved it all away. 

*

_I don’t want it._

_I don’t fucking care._

_It happened._

_It doesn’t matter._

_It fucking doesn’t._

But it all went forward again.

*

Cliff, between his legs. Lars, naked beneath him. 

Sunlight. No sunlight. Closed curtains. Open curtains. Somewhere on tour. Somewhere out in space. Somewhere else, in another world, in another time, anything but here, now, there, elsewhere, stop it, and Cliff stared down and said—

Lars covered his mouth with his. 

Soon, Cliff moved again.

It felt good enough. He made his body move with Cliff’s enough. He hadn’t then. 

And when he came, it started all over again. 

*

A repeat of before. Cliff above him, Lars beneath him. Spread legs and naked, sweaty skin. Open curtains, closed curtains, I don’t fucking remember, and Cliff said—

Lars shut him up, again, with another kiss. 

Soon, Cliff moved again. 

It felt alright. 

*

It was different this time. It wasn’t the same. Cliff, above him, and Lars, beneath him, they didn’t stare. Cliff actually said something. Cliff said, “I want you.” Cliff said, “I need you.”

It felt good, this time, and Lars liked it. 

But the room lurched forward.

*

This time, Lars ended it quick, and left Cliff on the bed. 

*

Cliff and Lars fucked sometime in 1983. The end. 

*

Cliff and Lars fucked sometime in 1984. The end. 

*

This time, when they finished, Lars sat up in bed, looked at Cliff, and he said, “Never again.”

“What?”

“Not this way.”

And the whole room lurched forward.

*

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree Cliff’s friend Jim Martin said was called Methuselah. 

It was there, under that tree, where Lars lost his virginity to Cliff. 

Cliff laid down a blanket. Lars felt little rocks dig into his shoulder blades. 

The branches covered all and none the sky.

It was day.

It was night.

The sun and the moon and the blue sky and the stars. 

Lars asked, “How do you want me?”

Cliff pushed him on his back. 

All he saw, and felt, was Cliff. And Cliff was slow.

Cliff said, “I love you.”

Cliff said, “I need you.”

Cliff said…

“He never said anything.”

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

_“He never said anything.”_

Lars’s eyes watered. 

One by one, all the stars died out. One by one, all the clouds faded away. The tree’s branches, gone, one by one. The ground, no more. The blue sky, no more. 

The world, this world, all in black. 

But Cliff stayed.

Cliff above, Lars below. 

Cliff, saying nothing.

Cliff could have said, “What do you want?”

Should have said, “That good?” or “You like that?”

Or maybe said, “Lars…”

Could’ve said, when he came, “Fuck,” or something like that. 

And afterwards: “You okay?”

Maybe even: “Did you like it?”

How did Cliff know what to do?

When had he done this before?

With who?

And why?

_Why?_

Lars stared.

He asked, “Why me?”

And Cliff said—

*

Cliff and Lars had sex sometime in September 1983. It was Lars’s first time with a man.

They were not sober. They did it in some room, at some place. At a friend’s party. In the room James and Lars shared. In the room Cliff lived in, with his parents. A living room. A bed. 

But Lars wanted it. He wanted Cliff, and he wanted this. 

Lars liked how good it felt. Lars liked how Cliff felt. How he kissed, how he pushed Lars down to the bed. 

Cliff knew what he was doing. 

Lars didn’t question. Lars didn’t argue, or beg, or fight, or tell him to wait, or tell him to stop, or tell him, “What’re you—” Because Cliff knew what he was doing. Cliff kissed him stupid. Cliff helped Lars out of his clothes, then took off his own. Cliff jerked him off and blew him and made him come. Then Cliff went off somewhere else and Lars didn’t even ask then, “What’re you—” Because Cliff came back quick, and shut the door, and locked it, and crawled back over him, and pushed his legs up, over his shoulders.

And Cliff stared. Cliff stared, while he worked his fingers in. 

Lars gasped. Lars grunted, and moaned, and winced, and hissed, and moaned again. 

Lars stared, at Cliff. 

Cliff stared back, quiet. Heavy breathing, but quiet. 

Then the fingers slipped out. Cliff slid his hands under Lars’s knees and pushed them upward, a little more. 

Lars held his breath. 

It felt weird, and wrong, and his hands clutched at the pillow. It felt big, and _weird_ , and, stretching, pushing, stretching, weird and _hurts hurts hurts_ Lars let loose a strangled whine-whimper, which made Cliff stop.

Lars panted hard.

Cliff breathed hard. 

Then, Cliff pulled out, a little. 

Lars shut his eyes when Cliff pushed in again. 

Stretching, weird, pushing.

He breathed through his nose. He sucked in his bottom lip. 

His hands dug into the pillow. 

Weird and weird and so _weird_. 

He bit down hard and grunted. 

Then Cliff stopped. 

Cliff’s heavy breathing grew louder. 

Lars opened his eyes and found Cliff looming over him, nose hovering over his, hair falling like a curtain around them both. 

Lars whispered, “Cliff…”

Cliff quieted him with a kiss. 

He felt one of Cliff’s hands find his, unfurling it from the pillow and weaving their fingers together instead. 

Then, he moved. 

They kissed and grunted and moaned.

It was over as fast as it began. Cliff didn’t last long, and it didn’t make Lars come. He lost his hard-on in the beginning, and it never came back. But Cliff came. He came inside him, and it didn’t feel right, or good, either. It felt weird. It all felt weird. 

He felt worse, somehow, when Cliff pulled out. Then he felt tired, and weird. Exhausted, drunk, tired, sleepy and weird. 

It did feel nice, having Cliff above him, Cliff’s body against his, Cliff’s hair rising and falling over his parted mouth. Having Cliff hold his hand. 

Cliff’s breath warmed his neck. Cliff’s body warmed his skin. 

For a while, Lars dozed off. 

He woke up to Cliff leaning up, their sticky bodies pulling away and the heat that generated between them leaving him. 

Cliff leaned over him again. 

Lars stared.

He couldn’t see Cliff staring back. 

Then Cliff kissed his closed lips. 

Their one twined hand unfurled. 

And Cliff left the bed. 

He stared at Cliff. He watched Cliff. 

But Cliff didn’t look back. Cliff had his back turned to him. Cliff gathered his clothes, gathered his things, and left. 

Cliff left. 

And he never said anything.

He never said _anything_. 

*

Moments upon moments, memories upon memories. Static and fuzz. Stacking up, piled up, one after another, all points on the line, points to make, to check off, one by one. 

And this one came and went. Another checked off. Another passed over.

Blackness, and darkness, and nothingness. 

Lars stared at the nothingness. 

_I don’t care._

_I don’t fucking care._

_It doesn’t matter._

_**It doesn’t.** _

He shut his eyes. 

He wrapped his arms around himself. 

He curled into himself. 

Under his breath, he whispered, “You never said shit.”

Then it all went forward again. 


	6. Tamas

He felt sore the next day. Sore enough to wince and hiss when he got up and out of bed. Sore enough to limp across the room to the bathroom, and winced again when he sat down on the toilet seat. There was no urge to vomit, at least. He wasn’t nauseous. Just sore. 

Lars stared at his thighs and his feet and his toenails. 

The next day. The day after.

James will ask, “Are you okay?”

Kirk will give him a weird look.

And Cliff…

_I can change this._

_I can make it better._

_I don’t have to go through this._

_I can move on._

_I can go forward._

Lars’s head flopped forward, into his waiting, cold hands. 

When he left the bathroom, dressed, left the bedroom and walked down the hallway to the kitchen, he covered as much as he could the limp in his steps. 

James, though, noticed the wince, when he sat down. Every time, the damn wince. 

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm.”

And that was it. James never pestered. Probably thought too much drinking. Probably didn’t care that much. 

Kirk walked in and out of the kitchen, off back home, that Lars remembered—that and Kirk’s weird look, as he walked past him and out the door. Kirk probably thought, He looks like shit. But Lars felt his cheeks go red, because the old thoughts of _maybe he heard us, maybe he saw us, maybe he knows, how could he know, did Cliff tell him, why would Cliff tell him, they are pretty close, are they close, what am I thinking, what was I thinking_ swarm through his head like locusts in a field, eating away at his brain, until he realized a little too late he was alone, James was gone, and he hadn’t eaten anything.

And Cliff…

Cliff was nowhere around.

Cliff was nowhere.

Cliff was probably in bed. Cliff was asleep. Cliff had left. Lars never checked. Lars never tried. Lars couldn’t. 

_But I can change this._

_I can make it different._

_I don’t have to go through this alone._

Lars looked up and said, “Hey James—”

But James was gone. 

Like he was supposed to be. Gone, off to work, off to play guitar, do something else, not talk to Lars, not find out what happened the night before, not anything. Because that wasn’t how it went. That was never how it went. 

James was gone, Kirk was gone, Cliff was gone. 

There, he sat the table, alone. 

Like it was supposed to be. Like it had to be. 

Lars stared ahead. 

He stared out the kitchen window into the world that waited for him outside. The world he knew, the world that would keep going forward, again and again, the same memories, the same moments. 

_Fixed points in time._

He pushed himself out of the chair, out of the kitchen, and out into the world. 

Standing on the lawn of the front yard, he stared at the street, the cars, the sun, the sky. He stared at the houses, the trees, the gas station nearby, the guy riding his bike. All these people, going about their lives. Creating their moments, their memories. 

_New fixed points._

_Endless points._

Lars looked down at his hands.

Soon, they would have to rehearse. Soon, they would be on the road. Onward, forward, to the next point. Onward, forward, to the correct memory, until it was the end. The absolute end. 

And why? 

_Why?_

_Why can’t I?_

_Why the fuck can’t I?_

He clenched his hands into fists.

_I can change this._

_I can make it different._

He looked up.

_I don’t have to go through with this._

His head tilted all the way back.

_I can make things better._

The sky, the sun, the clouds. 

The blackness and nothingness, beyond them, beyond this world. The endless stars and endless nothingness, beyond this world, this universe.

Lars rose his hands up—

_I can make everything better._

—and slammed them down.

*

The sky crashed into the Earth. The mountains flattened and the seas turned to ash. People evaporated. Light submitted to Dark. And the nothingness waited, feasting on the moon, chewing on the sun, sucking up the colors and the stars and all the galaxies, all the universes, everything, _everything_ , until Lars stood alone in the blackness, the nothingness, and said, “Start it again.”

*

Tuesday evening at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles, Lars met Cliff for the first time. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme. James and he went to the show just to check out the scene. That was the night Trauma was playing, and that was the beginning of the famed fabled story of he and James captivated and star-struck by this guy with wild red hair and denim playing the bass like a guitar, with his eyes rolling into the back of his head and his head rolling all over Lars was sure it would snap off his neck.

Somehow, Lars found Cliff’s number, and he began calling him frequently. “We really would like for you to be in our band,” he said, and Cliff wasn’t a hundred percent convinced. “We might have a record deal on our end, and I really don’t want to abandon these guys.” But Lars was determined, Lars had to have Cliff, there was something about him he couldn’t explain, the same thing he felt when he first met James, and if there was anything he knew, it was to trust that gut instinct, especially when it overpowered his usually-prevalent logical thoughts. 

Plus, they had nice side conversations at times. Lars asking Cliff about his likes and dislikes. His hobbies. Part of it was to get him comfortable and at ease over the phone, and possibly want to get into the band more. The other part of it was because he was curious to know more about this crazy guy. 

Eventually, things worked in their favor, and Ron found out about Cliff and quit on his own accord. They—he, James and Dave—went up to San Francisco to rehearse with Cliff, a musical interview, and he passed with flying colors. 

They spent a few months rehearsing before their first gig. James and Lars lived in a room in the Metallimansion. Cliff lived at his parents. Dave lived at Cliff’s Grandma’s place. 

Cliff usually hung out with his friends, but he included James and Lars sometimes. “This is my friend Jim,” he’d say, and then introduce everyone else. They were cool guy. Nice, Northern California guys, like Cliff. 

The first gig went fine.

The second gig, Cliff and Lars kissed for the first time. 

Lars asked him, “Why’d you do that?” Cliff answered, “Because I wanted to.” And it was a perfect answer for Lars, because he kissed him again after that. And again, and again. 

There was no awkwardness between them afterwards. It was their secret, away from the others. They didn’t need to know what was happening. They snuck kisses when they could, spent more time together away from the band. Cliff took him out to the movies. Cliff took him out to dinner. Cliff showed him his home of the Bay Area—North Bay, San Francisco, the East Bay, the Peninsula, the South Bay—all of it, everything, and Lars loved it all. The food, the culture, the people, the different scenery. With Cliff, this became his new home. His second home. 

“What’s Denmark like?” Cliff asked him once.

“Like North Bay. Just more ships, and more water.”

“And more Europeans.”

Lars laughed. 

“Do they smell as much as you?”

“Hey!”

Then Cliff laughed.

They laughed together, and kissed. 

In the chaos of the next few months, from the trip San Francisco to New York, and all the gigs between that, the recording of the album, and afterwards, Cliff and Lars made time for each other. They spent evenings away from the band. Many quiet moments spent together, either at a bar, or a café, or Cliff’s bedroom, or Lars’s bedroom when James wasn’t there, or on long, aimless walks, all in comfortable silence. They absorbed and learned and explored all the different cities they visited, taking in the different cultures, the people, the food, the scenery. 

Sometimes, in those quiet moments, Cliff made conversation. Sometimes, he talked about his past, about his siblings, his mother and his father. What it was like growing up. How his older brother died. Why he picked up the bass guitar. When he realized music was his life. 

And Cliff always asked him after, “So what about you?” Always said, “You tell me something to.” 

So Lars did, and he eventually told Cliff everything. Over the course of a few months, Cliff knew everything. Things Lars thought he would never tell anyone. His past. His secrets. His fears and dreams. 

Cliff never said anything when Lars finished, but Lars found comfort in his silence. Because Cliff held his hand. Cliff held him in his arms. Cliff didn’t let him go, not even when he finished and felt like getting away, hiding away, from what he said. Cliff refused.

Then Cliff would kiss him, long, lingering kisses that petered out and made Lars’s lips tingle, and then he’d crack some dumb joke to ruin the mood, and all was well. Everything got better. Everything was fine.

Sometime in September 1983, Cliff and Lars had sex in a motel somewhere in Marin County, near the sea. It was Lars’s first time. And Cliff wasn’t quiet then. Cliff didn’t stay silent. Cliff asked him questions. “How does that feel?” “Are you okay?” “Do you want me to stop?” Cliff told him things. “You feel so good.” “You look amazing.” “You’re so hot.” Cliff worried over him when they finished. “Was it okay?” “Are you in pain?” “Do you need anything?” 

When they cleaned up, Cliff held him in his arms, looked him in the eye and said, “I love you, Lars.”

Lars whispered back, “I love you too.”

They kissed. They snuggled together, under the blankets, the moonlight and the stars.

The morning after was as good as the night before. Cliff held his hand as they left the motel, held it in the car, held it all the way until he dropped him off at the Metallimansion again. A few hours later, Cliff checked up on him, in a phone call, and he kept checking up on him, a day or two after. He was sore, but it wasn’t awful. He would live. He’d be fine.

Things changed afterwards. Little things that became more frequent, more noticeable to Lars. Just the way Cliff kissed him. Longer. Drawn-out. Making each one last. The way Cliff held him. Strong, secure, not wanting to let go, not letting Lars be the one to end it first. 

And the way Cliff looked at him. The way Cliff looked at him.

Cliff loved him. 

And no one knew. James didn’t know. Kirk didn’t know. Cliff’s parents didn’t know, his own parents didn’t know, Dave and Ron sure as hell would never know—it was their secret. Their own little secret. Their piece of paradise.

Lars sat on Cliff’s bed, in Cliff’s bedroom, watching Cliff restring his bass guitar.

His Cliff.

_His_ Cliff.

Cliff looked over his shoulder, right at him.

Lars smiled.

Cliff smiled back and said—

“You are so full of shit.” 


	7. Circles

Everything lurched forward. 

Cliff shattered into pieces.

Lars gasped. 

He fell to his knees, hands reaching out to grab what he could.

Cliff turned to dust. Then nothing.

The whole world turned into nothing.

The nothingness.

Lars looked up.

The blackness. Empty nothingness.

Blackness, and darkness, and nothingness. 

“Get up.”

Lars looked to his side. 

James stared down at him. An older James, his hair slicked back and his eyes big and bright blue, lacking the dark fog that usually clouded them. 

_I know this James._

_I’ve seen him before._

He looked great, and different. A good kind of different. A better kind. 

And James looked the same too, just by that look. The look he gave Lars from above, a judging look, the kind Lars hated. A judging, accusatory look from behind black-rimmed glasses, with his then-bare arms crossed over his chest. Like a parent to a child.

“Well?”

Lars frowned. 

“Don’t give me that.”

“Give what?”

“That. You know what you did.”

Lars looked away, back to the floor. What he thought was the floor.

Nothing of Cliff’s remains. Nothing of Cliff remained. 

_Nothing._

Nothing of what they had. What they could’ve. 

Lars stared at his hands. 

Footsteps, and James’s feet came into view. 

“You weren’t supposed to do that.”

Lars clenched his hands. 

“You know you did wrong.”

“I don’t care.”

“It wasn’t supposed to—”

“Be this way?” He jerked his head up, glaring at James. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because I fucking felt like it. That’s why.” He got up to his feet and walked up into his face. “And I don’t fucking care anymore. I don’t give a shit anymore.”

And turned his back to him.

Walked away, out into the darkness, the nothingness. 

Walked far enough away, what he thought was far away enough, until he was alone. Until it felt close enough to loneliness, the thing he feared and hated most, and for once in his life, he was grateful for it. To be lost, to be alone, to have no one around, in the nothingness and the emptiness. Only himself. 

Then James said, “You changed.”

Lars looked over his shoulder. 

An even older James. Older and younger looking. No more glasses. Spiked hair, like a faux hawk. Arms not crossed anymore. Arms out to his sides again. 

He looked confused.

He looked sad. 

Lars turned around to face him.

James said again, “You changed.”

“I didn’t change anything. Everything’s still happening the same way, or did you not notice, uh? Fuck, it’ll still end the same way. What more do you want?”

James shook his head.

James whispered, “You were not allowed.”

“So what?”

“You were not allowed.”

“It’s called artistic license. Can’t I have a little bit of leeway? Don’t I deserve it?”

“You were not allowed.”

“And I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” 

James stared.

Lars glared.

Lars’s fists shook by his sides, glaring at James. 

“It’s not fucking real. None of this is fucking real. I’ve lived it all before. It’s all happened before. I know what’s coming next, and it’s the same old story. The same _shit_ I’ve had living in my head for the past twenty something years. So fuck you for telling me I’m not allowed to change things. Fuck you for telling me I wasn’t allowed. It’s my life. My goddamn memories. My story. I can change whatever the fuck I want, but I didn’t change shit. Everything will still be the same. Everything that’s important will happen. And everything will end the same damn way. I just added things I wanted, because I felt like it. It’s what I want, James. It’s how I want it to be.”

James shook his head again.

James looked sad.

James’s eyes shined.

James whispered, “ _You_ changed.”

Then he disappeared. Like vapor. Like nothing.

Lars stared out into the nothingness.

The endless nothingness.

He closed his eyes. 

He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth.

And again. 

_You changed,_ James said. _You._

_No, James._

_Everyone did._

_Everything else can._

_I can’t change._

_I’ll never change._

Lars opened his eyes again.

Methuselah. 

He looked up, high up into its branches, the branches that reached out into the black, empty nothingness, into the worlds and universes and galaxies hidden inside its bark, in plain sight.

But Cliff knew.

Cliff always knew. 

Cliff never said anything, though. Cliff always never said anything.

Lars reached out and touched the base of the tree.

He skipped his hand down its side, like Cliff did. 

“It's named after the oldest person to ever live,” Cliff had said. 

He picked a piece of bark away. 

He turned it onto its side. 

Rings encircled around rings. Rings inside rings. Numbers in circles, worlds upon worlds, inside beautiful ugly circles. All encyclical—like wavering, weaving galaxies, aging without numbers. Aging later. Aging forever.

Moments upon moments. Memories upon memories. Broken down, stripped down, torn apart, torn to pieces, then brought back together.

_Fixed points in time._

He crushed the piece of bark in his hand. 

The tree’s dust turned denim blue and bright red. 

“Imagine living that long, Lars,” Cliff had said. “To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”

He blew the dust from his hand. It disappeared, out into the nothingness. 

Then the world rebuilt itself from scratch again. The room he was in, the sky, the daylight itself. Cliff himself. The oceans filled up again, the trees rose up from the ground. The mountains, the mountains and their craggy faces, the White Mountains of Inyo County, canyons and caverns, lakes and springs, desert and prairie, and the people. All these people. All their lives and deaths and memories. Broken down, stripped down, torn apart, torn to pieces, then brought back together. Again and again and again. 

Endless as the nothingness. Endless and meaningless as nothingness. 

Wind touched Lars’s face. Music reached Lars’s ears. Hands touched Lars’s shoulders.

Cliff looked over his shoulder.

Cliff looked at him.

Cliff said—

Lars shut his eyes.

The hands disappeared. 

When he opened them again, he stared at the Methuselah tree.

Then he turned his back to it. 

Everything lurched forward, once again. 


	8. Shoal

The next year. 1984. Boston. The cancelled gig. Their lost equipment. Cliff got pissed, one of the first times Lars ever saw Cliff get pissed. Kirk was distraught. Kirk cursed and said some angry things, but it wasn’t nearly as angry as Cliff was. James, too, was mad. James, too, said some curse words, seemed as pissed as Cliff, but an hour, two hours, into losing their equipment, Lars saw the real James come through. The James that took it the hardest. The James that felt like part of his soul was taken away, and that all his hopes and dreams were forever lost and gone and crushed and shattered and destroyed into tiny pieces left for him to glue together at his face, without any glue to begin with. 

Cliff gave up being pissed and said, “Let’s get something to eat.”

Kirk agreed.

Lars said, “Yeah sure.”

And James sat, quiet, on the bed. 

Lars didn’t know why James was quiet. Lars asked him, “James? You coming?” But James sat there, quiet, with his bottle and his back to him and Lars didn’t know why. Lars never knew why because James never told him why. He learned later, much later, “My mother bought them for me.” And then it made sense. But back then, it didn’t, and even though Lars understood now why James sequestered himself away in their tiny motel room with a bottle of Bud, why James didn’t show up to the diner until later and they wrote what would become Fade to Black on that little piece of napkin, Lars had to show he didn’t understand, he didn’t know why. But Lars did. Lars understood. And as much as he wanted to comfort James, to tell him, “it’s okay, I understand,” it wasn’t right. It wasn’t how the story was supposed to be. 

Cliff said again, “I’m starving.”

Kirk said, “Is there something nearby?”

Lars was supposed to say, “Yeah, there is,” and he didn’t.

He stared at James. 

He stared at James’s hunched back.

James, with his hair over his face.

There were feelings then, for James. Back then, he liked the way James looked. He always liked the way James looked. There was something, about James’s look, when they first met in 1981, when James looked at him through his hair, when James looked at him from the other side of the kit. When James didn’t even look at him at all. It made Lars want to know James. The curiosity killed. The curiosity burned. Who was this man? Why was he so quiet? How did he got so talented? Was he talented, or did Lars want him talented? But he knew James was the guy. He kept James’s number, for a long time. He kept James in his mind, all through Europe. Maybe. Lemmy might’ve taken over that spot for a bit, definitely Diamond Head and Sean Harris did, and Maiden a bit too. But when he came back, when he arrived back to the States, it was all James. Because Hugh didn’t seem that interested. Hugh didn’t sound that good. James did. James sounded great. James burned a hole into his mind and stuck a fork into curiosity for curiosity’s sake and Lars had to know, had to try, just because, because, it was James. It was weird. It was strange. James was weird and strange and new and unsafe and he had to know why. He had to know why James was the way he was. 

Or it was because he knew no one else, and all he had was James’s number, and Hugh didn’t seem all that interested in the beginning. If he was interested. Or he found James’s number first. The story always changed. 

But not the feelings. Not the want. That, Lars remembered. And that never changed. That stayed the same. 

_You changed,_ James told him. _You._

He watched James take a swig.

He watched James wipe the back of his hand over his mouth. 

Over his eyes. 

_I can’t change._

_I’ll never change._

_But…_

Behind Lars, Cliff touched his shoulder 

“You know a place, Lars?”

Lars said, “Yeah, I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

But Lars kept staring. At James.

James, who took another swig.

James, who wiped at his mouth again, and this time, his eyes.

Kirk said, “Well?”

Lars turned to Cliff. 

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

Lars said, “Gimme a sec.”

And Cliff nodded and let him go.

James looked so startled and scared when Lars sat next to him on the bed. He hugged the bottle to his chest. 

“What?” 

The question sounded like a croak. 

Lars smiled. Lars cupped his cheeks.

_You changed,_ James told him. _You._

_Yeah, James._

_You think I did._

He leaned in. 

James aged in front of him. To 22. To 25. To 30 and 38. 

James always looked so scared.

James always looked so afraid.

_You changed,_ James said.

_No, James._

He closed his eyes.

_I’m always the same._

Their lips touched—and the whole room lurched forward.

*

The next year. 1984. Boston. The cancelled gig. Their lost equipment. Cliff got pissed, one of the first times Lars ever saw Cliff get pissed. Kirk was distraught. Kirk cursed and said some angry things, but it wasn’t nearly as angry as Cliff was. James, too, was mad. James, too, said some curse words, seemed as pissed as Cliff, but an hour, two hours, into losing their equipment, Lars saw the real James come through. The James who took their stolen equipment to heart, and Lars knew why, but he wasn’t supposed to know, because James never told him.

Cliff gave up being pissed and said, “Let’s get something to eat.”

Kirk agreed.

Lars said, “Yeah sure.”

And James sat, quiet, on the bed. 

Lars stared at his back.

There were feelings then, for James. Back then, he liked the way James looked. He always liked the way James looked. In that first meeting, back in 1981, Hugh didn’t sound that good, but James did. James sounded great. James burned a hole into his mind after that initial meeting, stuck a fork into Lars’s curiosity for curiosity’s sake, and Lars had to know, had to try, just because, because, it was James.

And yet James fell to the wayside, somewhere in 1982. Somewhere in 1983. Somewhere, there, all those feelings went away. Were hidden away. Taken away. Subdued. Sequestered.

Somewhere, in some time, some place, Lars stopped wanting to know about James. 

Or he never wanted him anyway. He never felt that way. 

Or maybe he did.

Maybe he never did. 

But James looked beautiful, back then. He remembered that, thinking that, feeling that. James was beautiful. 

Not in the face. The acne was horrible. 

But his music was beautiful.

His music was okay.

_Then what was it?_

_Why did I end up with him later?_

_Why him?_

_Why James?_

Cliff touched his shoulder. “You know a place, Lars?”

Lars said, “Yeah, I do.”

“Then let’s go.”

This time, Lars turned away, and followed the story the way it should be, heading out the motel room with Kirk and Cliff. 

*

Fade to Black on a napkin. Lars stared at James’s penmanship, at the credits on top: Hetfield/Ulrich/Burton/Hammett. 

James stuffed himself stupid with sweets, with the little money they had. Cliff did the same.

Kirk enjoyed some too, but had stuffed himself stupid with dinner.

Or maybe they hadn’t.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Lars stared at the napkin.

The song did.

The songs. Their songs. 

Lars stared at Cliff across the table.

Cliff didn’t stare back. 

No one stared at him. No one was looking. 

Lars stared at the napkin. 

In one smooth movement, he tore it in half. 

Everything lurched forward.

*

Lars stared at the napkin while no one stared at him. 

He tore a side off. 

Everything lurched forward.

*

Lars stared at the napkin.

This song was going to be beautiful. The song was beautiful. 

He didn’t want to do songs anymore. _Why can’t we do something else? Why can’t we be something else? Why don’t I go somewhere else? Why don’t we travel somewhere else?_

Cliff laughed, James laughed, Kirk laughed.

Lars hummed the melody of what would be, James said, “That sounds good,” and it all lurched forward again.

*

They left the diner with the napkin intact. James worked on some of the song that evening. A melody line. A beautiful melody.

Kirk helped. Cliff helped.

Lars stood in the back, helpless. Never useless. There was use for him, somewhere, in some place, some time. But always helpless. 

*

In the darkness of the nothingness from the emptiness of the universal ending placebo purgatory Lars recognized and knew, he said, “I want to remember it the way I want.”

The nothingness said nothing.

Lars said, “I want it to be different.”

Lars said, “Let it be different.”

Lars said, “Let me remember different.”

An older James looked him in the eye. 

Lars stared.

James glared.

James said, “You can’t rewrite forever.”

Then it all lurched forward again.

*

In 1984. The year began fine, until Boston. Their equipment was stolen. Cliff got pissed, Kirk got pissed in his own way, and James was pissed too, until it turned into that quiet icy anger that James got into when he shut down and pushed enough people away like a scared animal, not wanting anyone around, and Lars never understood why. 

They went to a diner, the three of them, without James. Some time later, James joined them later, and in that diner, on that napkin, they wrote Fade to Black. 

James got to work on it pretty soon. The others helped. Lars tried. He arranged. It was useful, at least.

Anthrax gave them their equipment to use for a show days later, in Valley Stream, NY. They made up that missed Boston show a few days after that. Fans were happy. James, Kirk and Cliff were happy.

Lars was sort of happy. Lars was probably happy. Lars was more focused than happy, but in that moment, he was probably happy enough. 

Then came the European tour, and all the debauchery and fun and excitement that came with it. Donington, their first show, with the crowd slaughtering a pig and throwing pig parts onto the stage and bottles and dirt and Cliff looking off to the side and telling some friend of his, “This is fucking awesome!” And Lars saw that and heard or read his words and laughed too, from behind the kit. 

This was fun. This was the beginning.

They would record. 

They would begin a new album. 

A new beginning, a new style, new everything. 

Lars stared at the crowd, at the sea of people.

He stared at Kirk’s back. At Cliff’s back.

At James’s back.

Cliff looked over his shoulder and stared.

Lars stared.

Cliff smiled. Cliff smiled at him.

Cliff mouthed something, too, and Lars didn’t hear it that time. Didn’t read it well enough. 

What did he say, what did Cliff said, what was he saying to me, and Lars shook his head and said—

James smashed a cymbal with his fist and said, “Come on!”

His focus kicked in, and they played again. 

*

Lars sat behind the kit again, and again, and again, and watched Cliff turn around and smile and speak to him again, and again, and again, but the roar of the crowd, the roar of James, the noise and chaos, it silenced Cliff, it forced Cliff quiet, no matter how many times Lars strained to hear it, no matter how many times Lars wanted to hear it, it never happened. It never would happen. It wasn’t part of the story. It wasn’t meant to be.

_But I want it to._

_I need to._

So after how many times he sat behind the kit and strained to hear Cliff speak, he made Cliff say the thing that made most sense: “Isn’t this great?!”

Lars shouted back, “Yeah!”

When he looked at James again, James glared.

Lars stared.

He waited for James’s cymbal hit. Waited for James’s growl.

James said, “You can’t rewrite forever.”

But it was okay, when it all lurched forward again. It was fine.

*

Hours later, after the last European gig, after they were done and heading back to the States—or off to Denmark, to Sweet Silence Studios, to go record their second album, either way, either story—Lars stood in the bathroom of their hostel, Cliff and Kirk and James on the outside, watching something, talking about something. 

Lars stared at his naked, wet reflection, at his hair stuck to the sides of his pink cheeks and his wet eyes.

_You changed,_ James said.

_You can’t rewrite forever,_ James said.

James stared.

Lars glared.

Lars said, “I want to.”

So he did. 


	9. Apparitions

What happened before—all the befores, all the back-then, was and all pieces of what-could-be—Lars negated it all and righted it all in the way he desired, the way it was meant to be and not meant to be at the same time. 

*

March, 1984.

Lars and Cliff and James and Kirk worked on the album. Lars was home, in Copenhagen, in Denmark. Lars missed it so much.

Lars shared a room with Cliff, while they recorded. James shared a room with Kirk. 

They screwed whenever they could. 

They loved each other.

Lars loved him.

Lars showed off his hometown. They all loved it. Lars showed off Cliff to his family and friends. They loved him. Cliff loved his family.

They did one show in London. They debuted Ride the Lightning. The crowd ate it up alive. They debuted When Hell Freezes Over. Cliff’s first masterpiece. His first baby. The crowd loved it too. Lars was so proud of him. 

Cliff didn’t stare at him so much. Cliff did things with him. Cliff cared. Cliff went with him everywhere in Europe, no matter how homesick he was, no matter how cold it was that March. Because they had each other. Because Cliff had Lars. And Lars had Cliff. And it was great. It was okay.

* 

Each point, the points that had to stay the same, they stayed the same. Meeting James. Starting the band. Meeting Dave. Meeting Cliff. The move, the gigs they did, the music, everything. Even the points Lars didn’t care for. Like the punch James gave him, that one gig. His mom and dad’s divorce, a little after he left Newport Beach for the Bay Area. He lived it all, and it changed. 

It all changed. 

*

April 1984. 

They finished the album the month before. Now they had to mix it. Cliff missed home enough to leave, but Cliff loved Lars more, so he stayed. 

They explored Denmark and the surrounding, nearby countries when they could. Sometimes, they went as a band, bringing James and Kirk along, who had stayed behind as well. Sometimes, Cliff went with Lars’s family. Sometimes, they went alone, and those journeys were nice. Learning more about Cliff with each journey into the unknown. 

One more gig this month, the same place in London, same setlist as before. It sounded good. The songs sounded better. They sounded tighter, as a band.

Cliff was so happy.

Cliff obviously loved him.

Cliff made lots of friends. Cliff started parties and was rowdy and knew when to stop too. He was so mature. So great.

Kirk was out on his own, in the eather. A happy place for him. Drinking, partying, with everyone. Happy on his own. Happy around everyone. 

And James… 

James stared.

James glared.

Lars ignored him.

*

He changed.

*

May, 1984. Cliff, James and Kirk finally went home to the States, to California. Lars stayed behind a few weeks to be with family a bit more, and finalize whatever was left in the studio, before he followed them back to the Bay Area, back to his room he shared with James in the Metallimansion, in El Cerrito. 

James was never in his line of sight. James didn’t matter anymore.

James was a friend.

James was always a friend. 

James always stared. James always glared. 

James had his own life, and Lars had his own life, and that was the way it was. 

It was good. It was fine.

Lars had Cliff. Lars had Cliff that whole month of May. Even as they rehearsed as a band for the eventual summer European gigs, they were insatiable. Lars couldn’t get enough of Cliff. Cliff couldn’t get enough of Lars. They had to have each other. They needed each other.

Cliff loved him, and Lars loved Cliff.

James was never in the picture.

James was never a factor.

James was James. James was just James.

_I never wanted James._

_I never, ever wanted him._

So he never did.

*

It all happened. All at once. Collisions and explosions. Bubbles of energy. Pockets of blackness. The everything, all together, all in one, negated and nourished and reborn like stars in the nothingness. And one by one, they passed on him by him in flashing snapshots, and Lars relived it all, every single moment and memory and feeling and everything, until he finally reached the right point, the next today, again.

*

June, 1984. A short European tour. Debauchery and fun and more money rolling in, enough to spend it when they could, on things like booze, and a trip to the Bahamas, in Lars’s case. Lars dropped a trip on Cliff’s lap, out of nowhere, with the money he had saved, and said, “Let’s go.” So they did. They went together, alone, to the Bahamas, to one of the beaches, rented a casita, and yet somehow, someway, they ran into friends there. It was fine. They drank booze, smoked weed, ate a lot of food, but the evenings were the best. In the evenings, they walked together on the beach, holding hands. Together, on the beach, they sat and made out in the sand. Then Cliff bitched about the sand later getting into places he hated, and Lars laughed. Then they kissed again. They held hands again. They went back to their little beach casita again, late in the afternoon, right when the sun was setting, and Lars watched Cliff strip and how his skin looked gold in the red sun and his hair turned into touchable flames, flames the engulfed them both, enshrouded them in good darkness, and Lars and Cliff fell into the nothingness, the peaceful nothingness that came with orgasm and bliss, as they made love, again and again and again. 

*

July and August. September and October. Month after month, season after season. passing by his mind and his eyes like the season outside a window. Snapshots. Jerky frames. Flashes of beautiful, bulbous light, bursting in the nothingness of forever. Each one important. Each one fleeting. Each one, treasured, because it was a piece of Lars, and a piece of Cliff, together. The way it should be. The way it was meant to be.

*

Then came November.

Gigs, gigs and more gigs. Touring life reborn. Bigger crowds. More adventures and debauchery and friendships created and stories formed to tell as memories later. And Kirk and James, back in the picture, because they had to be. 

James, who filled up more of those jerky frames. 

James, who looked at Lars more often.

James, who smiled like bursting light. 

James, who Lars erased from memory, each time. 

*

December. The last month.

Touring in Europe, finishing up before going home. But Cliff was going to stay this time, with Lars. Cliff wasn’t going back. “My home is with you,” Cliff said, and Lars loved him more for saying that. 

By this time, Cliff was getting closer to James, and Kirk. They had to. It made sense. It had to happen. Cliff and Kirk were created from the same fabric, the same strings, born of the Bay. The kinship was so obvious there. And Cliff and James clicked because they had to. 

But they didn’t get as close as Cliff and Kirk did. No, never as close. Because Cliff and Kirk always made sense, and Cliff and James never did. 

“You ready?”

Lars turned and faced James. 

On stage. Backstage. The crowd waited for them. The last show of the tour. Last show of December. 

There was the crowd, out beyond the curtain, Lars could see them, them and Cliff and Kirk, Cliff and Kirk who on the wings, talking to each other, talking about something Lars never heard, and Lars wanted to walk away, wanted Cliff to be there, in front of him, asking him the question, not James, never James—

Then James leaned in. James touched his shoulder. 

Lars stared.

James stared. 

James said, “Come on.”

James said, “Let’s go.”

James said, “Fucking hurry up.”

James said—

Lars stared.

James stared.

James leaned in.

James finally asked, “Are you okay?”

Lars’s vision blurred. Lars’s eyes burned.

Lars felt the lump in his throat, again.

He shook his head no. 

Lars said, “I’m fine.” “I’m okay.” “I’m good.” “Go away.” “Leave me alone.” “Fuck off.” “Why do you care?” “Why do you always fucking care?”

Lars let loose a soft sob and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, James asked, again, “Are you okay?”

Again, his vision blurred. Again, his eyes burned. 

Again, that lump in his throat, and Lars shook his head no.

_Don’t say it._

James frowned and squeezed his shoulder. 

Then he looked over Lars’s shoulder.

Over his own shoulder.

_Please, James._

James took his hand off.

James leaned in closer.

Lars shut his eyes.

_Don’t let me fall for…_

James hugged him. His hair, against Lars’s nose and lips. His arms, around his torso, hands flat on his back. 

Lars stared ahead.

Lars stared at Cliff.

Cliff never saw. Cliff talked to Kirk. Cliff didn’t see it.

Cliff never, ever saw anything.

Then James petted his back, once, twice, and Lars gave in. Like he had to. Like he wanted— _had_ to. Had to give in. Because it made sense. Because it had to make sense.

Even James pulling away had to happen. And the way he looked. How sad he looked. The concern. The need to know, and Lars wanted to tell him had to tell him needed to tell him about him and Cliff _no no NO—_

Then James said—

“Let’s go!” Cliff shouted. “We’re late!”

James startled. Lars startled. 

They rushed to the stage, James ahead of Lars. During the gig, they made no eye contact. Cliff sometimes did with Lars, and Lars didn’t _yes I did_ need it. Lars didn’t _I did I did_ want it. 

Lars didn’t care about _I did I did I fucking did_ and so he did, he cared about Cliff. He always cared about Cliff, especially there, and now, in December, in that gig. Not James. James didn’t matter. James didn’t really care. James never cared. Because James wasn’t Cliff. James would never be Cliff. It was Lars and Cliff, Cliff and Lars. The way it should be. The way it was meant to be. The way it always will be.

*

And so it was, the two of them, ringing the end of 1984 in bed. 

They made love to begin the New Year and it was perfect. It was everything Lars wanted and needed it to be. Cliff memorizing and owning every piece of his body, mind and soul. Cliff possessing him deep inside, moving slow enough for Lars to feel, his labored breathing and harsh whispers loud and clear in the quiet, dark bedroom. Lars too felt Cliff and memorized Cliff, owned Cliff and possessed Cliff the same way too, kissing and biting and scratching his nails over his skin and nipping his sides and licking the flanks of his hips and everything, everything Cliff would love, did love, Lars did it, because he loved him. He loved Cliff. He loved him so much, so very much, and Cliff, he loved Lars, so very much. It was a love that burned, a love that killed and swallowed and congested and Lars didn’t want to let it go, let him go, it had to go on forever, it had to be endless, it had to be a loop not a snapshot a continuous endless loop a connected loop of memories and feelings and emotions and Cliff and him and him and Cliff being together together always together drifted floating fading disappearing please disappear disappear please God into nothingness into emptiness let me into the darkness above the light above disappear far far away until they were nothing specks of nothing total nothingness forever and ever and ever together never to part again never to separate always together always forever always always always _so full of SHIT—_

Lars jerked up.

Late at night. Very, very late at night. 

Bedroom.

New Years. 1984.

1985.

A new year. Still with Cliff. Cliff, beside him, in bed. 

Cliff, who…

Who wasn’t really there. 

Was never really there. 

Lars stared into the emptiness. 

No Cliff.

No James.

Just nothingness. 

Loneliness. 

The truth, in real loneliness. 

Lars curled up onto his side, hugging his knees tight to his chest. 

He shut his eyes and waited for the next tomorrow. 


	10. In Time

January, February and March, of 1985. Not 1984. 1985. The year. This year. The last year before the very last. 

So many shows. All the touring. One date after the other, relentless, all through the winter transitioning into the spring. The fans, the women, James, Kirk, and Cliff. 

These memories.

Useless memories. 

Lars watched James and Cliff grow closer, as friends. Lars watched Kirk and Cliff grow closer, as friends. How they spend time together, James and Cliff hunting together, Kirk and Cliff going to comic book shops together. The horror fun. Watching horror movies. Cthulhu and all that stuff Lars didn’t really get. 

Lars watched Cliff’s smile disappear.

Lars watched Cliff disappear. 

_Make this stop._

_Make it end._

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

_I don’t want it anymore._

Endless amount of empty stares, empty looks, empty, always empty, and Cliff wandering off, wandering away, far far away, off into an unknown that Lars wasn’t invited to—that Lars didn’t understand anyway. One James understood, with its machoness and guns and weed, that Lars understood, Lars knew weed, but nothing else. The rest was American. The rest was foreign to the foreigner. 

An outsider, in his own band. Among his own friends. 

_Was it like that?_

_Did it really happen, like that?_

_Do I want it to be like that?_

Lars stared.

No Cliff. 

No Kirk. 

No James.

Lars curled up onto his side in the empty nothingness, the darkness and the blackness. 

So many empty nights, laying alone, on an empty bed. On a tour bus. In a hotel room. Countries and cities he never heard of or seen before. Alone. 

Until Cliff felt like it. 

He shut his eyes. 

_Why does it matter?_

_What’s the point?_

_We’re not in 1985 anymore._

But he was. They were. And the memories upon memories, the moments upon moments, they had to come. They had to arrive, and he had to relive. Realize and relive, with every fixed point. Every little detail. 

Lars hugged his knees to his chest.

The mattress dipped. Sheets moved. 

Cold air. Cold fingers on his bare shoulders. Cold lips, pressed to his cold cheek.

Cliff pressed up against his back.

Cliff was cold.

Lars stared at the blackened wall.

Then Cliff’s hands turned him around and Lars followed along with what had to happen next, spreading his legs wide and opening his mouth to Cliff. 

*

The first three months blurred. Each memory fizzled in and out. More static than the rest, but the focus was not on then, but what was coming. And then, the three months were about gigs and shows and James and Cliff, Kirk and Cliff, and Lars, sometimes, spending some time with James, and Cliff, and Kirk. Mostly, he stayed to himself. Mostly, he stayed with other people. The people changed, when Lars felt like it. The same day, with a different person, someone he didn’t get to know too well back then, but could now. And he did it again and again until he was bored and there was no one else left to know. 

He could keep going. Keep trying and keep mixing things up. Do new things. Do something different. 

Memories upon memories. Moments upon moments. 

All of them… 

Lars stared.

Fading.

Fading memories, like fading light.

The end, in the last year before the very last.

Lars looked at his hands. 

_No more._

Then it all lurched forward.

*

January, February and March, of 1985. Not 1984. 1985. The year. This year. The last year before the very last. 

So many shows. All the touring. One date after the other, relentless, all through winter transitioning into spring. The fans, the women, James, Kirk, and Cliff. 

These memories.

Useless memories. 

Fading. All of it fading, until… 

“Hey Lars.”

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

Not a hotel room. Not on tour. Not at night. Sunlight, instead, and a room, somewhere in—California. In the Bay Area. Home, spring outside, after the tour, Lars and Cliff and Cliff asking, “What’d you need?”

Lars gasped. 

April. 

_Shit._

“Well?”

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

Lars said, “Do it again.”

“Huh—”

“I’ll do it.”

Then everything lurched forward.

*

In some room, some place—Carlson Boulevard, the old house—in the bedroom he and James shared, on a day James wasn’t there, Lars asked Cliff over for a chat, and when Cliff arrived, Cliff said, “Hey Lars. What’d you need?”

“It’s done.”

“Huh—”

“This.” He pointed between them. “We’re through.”

Cliff stared, as he had to.

Lars stared, as he had to.

And Cliff said nothing.

Cliff never said anything. 

Cliff nodded, turned, and walked away. 

Back then, Lars was sad, and hurt, for what Cliff did. Back then, Lars coped by throwing himself into work. Now, Lars threw himself into work, and now, he felt those feelings, because he had to, but he didn’t care. It had to be done. Fixed point. One he needed to happen. One he was ready to have happen.

*

Spring to summer. May and June, July and August. He worked away from the band. Met people away from the band. Cliff grew closer to James. Cliff grew closer to Kirk. Lars gravitated to Kirk. Lars liked Kirk. Lars spent whatever time he could with James. They were friends. There were all friends.

Cliff never brought up anything. Cliff never bothered him again.

Lars didn’t care.

Lars never cared.

And yet…

Lars watched Cliff with James, Cliff with Kirk. The stories they told. The secrets they shared. Things he wasn’t part of. Things he would never know, and that was fine. He and Cliff had their secret. Their past, that no one would ever know. 

It was over and done with. It was through. 

_No more._

And yet…

_Was it really like this?_

_Was it ever really like this?_

Cliff was with him. From 1983 until 1985, in some form, some way, Cliff was with him. It was Cliff and Lars, and Lars and Cliff, and Cliff came to Lars, and Lars always accepted Cliff. Every time Cliff came to him, crawled into bed with him, pushed him up against a wall and kissed him, he took it, because—he had to. Because he wanted to. Because it was Cliff. 

_Was it really like that?_

_Was it ever really like that?_

Lars stared at Cliff and James, Cliff and Kirk, the paperwork on the table he had done years and years ago, the sunlight he saw before outside the window years and years ago, the sky he watched turn from blue to black years and years ago. 

_Am I just full of shit?_

_Or…_

He stared ahead.

Lars didn’t care and went back to work.

*

Sometime between August and September, another body ended up on Lars’s bed late at night. The mattress dipped. The sheets moved. 

James pressed up against his back. 

A warm hand touched his side. Warm lips brushed his cheek. 

James was warm.

Nothing like Cliff. And that was all the reason Lars needed.

Then James hugged Lars tight, the bedsprings whining, James’s hand twining with his, over the mattress, and Lars shut his eyes, listening to James’s warm breath tickling his ear.

*

September to December. The winter of 1985, in Copenhagen, at home. Recording what would be Master of Puppets. Sharing rooms. Working hard. 

James coming to him at night, like Cliff did. Except they were sharing a room even then, in 1984, and Cliff never…

Cliff never…

_Why does it matter?_

_What’s the point?_

_We’re not in 1985 anymore._

Because he was. Because they were.

Because Lars was…

Lars stared.

Empty bed. 

Empty, black, nothingness. 

He hugged himself. 

_Lonely._

That, he remembered. That, he knew, and feared. 

He could never forget, living out his greatest fear and having that fear taken away from him, on those nights when Cliff felt like remembering he was there, and wasn’t just… whatever he was to Cliff. Whatever they were. But Cliff came to him, Cliff came at the most random of times, in the most random of places—on the tour bus, before a gig, after a gig, in a hallway, a bedroom, some room, at midnight, at two in the afternoon, at six in the morning. Always when no one was around. Always when they were sure to be alone. That’s when Cliff remembered that he had Lars. When Cliff remembered Lars. 

Kirk never knew. James never knew. 

No one knew. Not a single person knew.

No one was supposed to.

And yet…

Lars turned around in bed. 

He stared at James in his sleep.

His fingers reached toward him.

_I could…_

Lars pulled his hand back.

He sighed, shut his eyes and waited for the next tomorrow. 

*

And when that tomorrow arrived, it was a New Year. September and October, November and December, it had all passed, and with it, all the memories too. He was older, the album was done, they were going home—the others were home, back in the States, while Lars stayed behind, working hard and being with family, because James, because Cliff, because of the tour and—

Lars gasped.

Lars stared.

The blackened wall looked like black ice.

The empty black nothingness.

It looked like black ice.

Everything, everywhere, surrounding him.

Lars’s vision blurred. 

It was all black ice. 

He fell to his knees and curled up.

_I can’t do this._

_I can’t do it again._

_Please…_

He looked up.

_Methuselah._

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California. 

Lars whispered, “No more.”

In the blackness of the nothingness, on the empty side of this cold universe, his universe, time never ended and time moved on and time pressed on and Lars pushed and fought and clawed away but couldn’t escape, never escape, and his mind and heart and soul and being screamed as the branches reached up on high, reached up onto him, reaching and twisting, snarling and ensnaring and Lars reached on up too, reached on up into the world and the stars and the cold empty black nothingness with its fading light of fading memories in this last year, the very last year and _no more please no more I can’t take this I can’t do it I can’t do this I CAN'T DO THIS AGAIN—_


	11. Apoapsis

Standing there, again. Sitting there, again. The again and the again after that. Endless and forever and is this destiny is this fate sitting in this place and standing in that place. 

Each month, passing on and on and on. January, February, March and April. 

Every laugh Cliff let loose. Every smile Cliff sent someone’s way. Fleeting and concrete at the same time. 

The fixed points.

May and June, July and August.

James and Kirk and all those people, all those fans, all the world. 

Cliff stared at the world. 

Each time. Each moment.

Memories and moments, stacked on top of each other. Each and every time. Each and every fucking time…

_September._

_September._

_September September September…_

Lars held his head in his hands. 

*

Standing there, again. Sitting there, again. The again and the again after that this is hell this is my hell this is Cliff standing and laughing and living and James and Kirk and no one knows no one will ever know fixed points. _Fixed._

Lars curled up into a ball. 

*

There was a tour. There were shows. Time spent getting the gear in, time spent getting the gear out, time spent with people, time spent together. 

All of it fixed. 

_I could change it._

_I could._

Lars pulled at his hair.

_And I can’t._

_I always can’t._

_I never can._

*

Forty-eight hours. That was all they had. That was all Lars allowed Cliff to have. The month it happened I don’t give a shit anymore let it be April let it be May I don’t fucking care anymore was April, late April, alone, Cliff always found a way to get them alone or to have them alone, and it was somewhere on tour, that Lars remembered, somewhere on tour that Cliff found Lars and Cliff cornered Lars and Cliff asked Lars the question that rung in his head for years after. 

“Can we try again?”

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

The silence and the emptiness and the nothingness and Lars said, “Okay,” and Cliff smiled. Cliff smiled at him. It made Lars remember, for that moment, and in the memories of the moments that would sing to him years after, why he liked Cliff in the first place. 

*

Forty-eight hours. That was all they had. That was all Lars allowed Cliff to have. They went out. They did stuff together. It was awkward, and weird, and Cliff was happy and smiling, and Lars felt wrong and weird just like that first time just like then just like always and when they were in bed, when Cliff was between Lars’s legs again, when Cliff came, when Cliff kissed him, Lars kissed him back, did up his pants, didn’t even come, didn’t feel anything, and he told Cliff the words that rung in his head for years after.

“No more.”

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

The silence and the emptiness and the nothingness and Cliff said something actually more than word, more than silence.

Cliff actually said, “Why?”

And Lars laughed. Lars actually laughed. 

Cliff frowned.

Lars shook his head.

Lars said, “You should know.”

And he turned and left.

*

He ran through the last 48 hours forty-seven times, trying each time to fix the time and the points. 

Each time, everything lurched forward. 

Each time, he came face to face with an angry James from a different point in his life, who kept telling him the same thing. 

“You are so full of shit.” 

“You can’t rewrite forever.” 

“You changed.”

Each time, he said, “I want to.”

*

Forty-seven times tried. Forty-seven denied. 

Forty-seven times, Cliff asked, “Can we try again?”

Forty-seven times, Cliff asked, “Why?”

Forty-seven times, Lars said, “You should know.”

* 

On the forty-eighth time, the very last time, Lars found himself in front of James, the James of this year, of this month, of this time, who asked him, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“Are you okay?”

They were backstage. They were alone. They were in a room. They were somewhere, some place far, far away, some place where Cliff wasn’t. 

James never stared.

James always cared.

James asked him, “Are you okay?”

It was January. April. May. Some time, some place. 

Everything Cliff wasn’t.

_We’re not in 1985 anymore._

He answered James with a kiss. A real kiss. 

*

He had to do what he had to do. Fixed points, in time. Everything. January and April. February and May. March, Cliff’s birthday, what did we do, does it matter, then touring with Ozzy and Cliff was so happy in June and July, and James was all his, he was all James’s for August, taking care of James in that summer, with his broken arm and his bruised ego and Cliff was an afterthought, Cliff was never there, Cliff never cared, Cliff was never James, but James, James was, James—

_I can’t do it._

_I can’t do this._

_I don’t want this._

James stared.

Cliff stared.

Lars curled into a ball.

Lars put his head in his hands.

Lars pulled at his hair.

Lars gritted his teeth and scrunched his face up and clawed at his skin and clawed at himself and clawed at the world around him and when cold ice stuck to his fingers, he shouted, “ _STOP—_ ”

*

Everything lurched forward.

Again and again and again.

Forty-seven times, everything lurched forward.

On the forty-eighth time, Lars finally threw up.

*

There were so many memories. He lived through them all. Each and every today and tomorrow. The good and the bad. 

Cliff and James should’ve shared equal time. Cliff and James should’ve been the focus, for those nine months. 

It was all James, instead.

Everything, always, was James. 

_Why?_

_Why, James?_

_Why did I…?_

Lars rubbed his cold face.

_Why did I deny Cliff?_

_What did I deny me?_

*

Forty-eight hours. Forty-seven times, in the very last year. Everything lurching forward. Fixed points in time. Memories upon memories, moments upon moments.

Methuselah’s wicked, twisted branches, holding him steadfast, ensnared and inescapable, like the light of a train hitting him at full force. 

*

James.

James, there. Young James, into older James. The forms of older James.

James, who crossed his arms and shook his head.

James, who smiled at him and embraced him.

James. Not Cliff. Never Cliff.

James was the one who shared the rooms with him. James was the one who he introduced the family to. James was the one who went out with him, drank with him, spent time with him, got to know him. James was the one he went to the Bahamas with. James was the one he left with. 

James was the one.

James was…

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

Cliff asked, “Can we start again?”

James stared.

James asked, “Are you okay?”

Lars curled up tighter. 

Lars squeezed his eyes shut.

Lars whispered, “No more. Please. No more.”

But it all lurched forward again.

*

Cliff was closer to James and Kirk in the very last year. Lars was away most of the time. Lars was off in New York and Europe and other friends, and when he came home, he either spent the time with Torben in Seattle, or James back at home. Because he and James had work to do together. He and James did all the band stuff together. 

He and James were together.

But James always brought up Cliff. How cool Cliff was. How they did so many things together. How Cliff took James here and there, places Lars had never been too, ever, and introduced him to all these people, these friends of Cliff’s that Lars never met either, and kept going on and on and on and on that Lars, for the first time, felt jealous. 

He never told James. He never bothered. James didn’t need to know Lars was jealous. James didn’t need to suspect why Lars was jealous. But maybe James did know Lars was jealous, and if James did, it was because Lars wanted exclusive time with James, he didn’t know, he’d never know, but he was jealous, that summer, some of the spring, and why he went away most of the time, because Cliff was with James, and James was with Cliff, and they were friends, and they didn’t need Lars, Lars didn’t need them, Lars didn’t understand, Lars would never understand, and he wasn’t part of their world, their culture, and he separated himself from it, from them, from everything.

And yet James asked him, “Are you okay?”

James didn’t call, like Cliff never called, but James asked him, “Are you okay?”

James was like Cliff and nothing like Cliff. 

They were the same.

They were so alike.

They were the real soulmates. The real friends.

Cliff should’ve chosen James. James should’ve chosen Cliff. 

And yet they didn’t.

_Why me?_

Lars glared, at Cliff, at James.

_Why the fuck ME?_

They didn’t notice him.

*

The months and the days ping-ponged back and forth, because Lars willed it, and needed it, and wanted it. And so he did. He relived days and nights, yesterdays and tomorrows, again and again. The January, the March, April and May. June and July, August a few times over. 

August was special. August was James’s birthday. James’s special month. 

August was when James told Lars, “You mean a lot to me.”

It meant so much. It meant everything.

Months into this, into whatever they were, and James said that. 

James was never Cliff. And James never knew. James would never know. No one would know. No one would know everything. We’re not in 1985 anymore. And what was born again sometime during the spring of 1986 died in forty-eight hours, even before slipping on ice. 

Lars killed it himself. James stomped on it.

And yet…

Lars stared.

Cliff stared.

Lars teared up.

_No more._

_Please._

He shut his eyes.

_No more._

*

He found himself in Europe again, in the autumn—September, September, again, a September, this September, and he backed up into a wall, a black wall that felt as cold as ice under his clothes and his skin. 

It was beautiful. It was a beautiful autumn. Would be a lovely winter.

James and Kirk and Cliff, on the bus. All of them waiting. All of them excited. 

Lars froze.

Lars shivered.

An older James came in his purview, and said, “You can’t rewrite forever.”

Another James came in his vision, and said, “You’re so full of shit.”

James, this James, came in front of him, and said, “You changed.”

Lars stared.

Lars slid down and curled up, burying his face into his hands, burying himself into himself, and James kept talking, James kept saying, “You can’t rewrite forever. You’re so full of shit. You changed. You changed.” 

“Go away.”

“You—”

“Go away.” 

“You can’t—”

“ _NO MORE!_ ”

Everything shattered to pieces.

*

In the silence of the emptiness in the nothingness with this blackness he came to know and understand in some way, in some ugly disgusting gut-churning way, Lars stood there, again, sat there, again, the again and the again after that, endless and forever and _is this destiny is this fate this is hell this is my hell this is sitting in this place and standing in that place and I can’t_ “TAKE IT ANYMORE! I’m done! I’m through! You can’t make me do this again! You can’t make him go through this again! I can fix it! I can make it better! I can do _ANYTHING!_ ” 

James stood there.

James glared.

James shook his head and said, “You can’t rewrite forever.”

Lars laughed. 

Lars glared back.

Lars sneered, “Watch me.”

Then he made James disappear. 

*

In the empty black nothingness, Lars stood and stared at Cliff, and said, “I’m finally going to make it up to you, Cliff.” He touched his cold cheek, smiled and said, “I’m finally going to make things right.” 


	12. Samsara

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, stood a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. There was nothing special about this tree, not to Lars, who hated hiking and the outdoors and everything that had to do with the word ‘camping,’ except Cliff wanted to see it, and whatever Cliff wanted to do, even in the wintertime, Lars saw to it that it happened. 

“It's named after the oldest person to ever live.” Cliff’s hand skipped down the old bark. “Imagine living that long, Lars. To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”

“That’d suck.”

“Right?” 

“Glad I’m not a tree.”

“You’re too short to be one.”

“Thank you for pointing that out to me, genius.”

“And loud and fidgety and really—”

“Oi!”

Cliff laughed.

They made love at the base of the tree. It was Lars’s first time. It was perfect. It never felt weird. He never felt pain. It was everything he wanted. Everything perfect. 

Years. They were together for years. They met on a Tuesday evening at the Whiskey-A-Go-Go. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme. Ron and Dave didn’t matter. Didn’t exist. It was only he and James, and later, it was only he and Cliff.

It was always he and Cliff.

Lars and Cliff, Cliff and Lars. 

Memories, on top of memories.

All those beautiful memories.

Cliff and Lars’s beautiful memories.

They shared a room in El Cerrito. They made love in El Cerrito. There was never James, never Dave, never Kirk. The band didn’t matter. Touring meant nothing. The music was secondary.

It was always Cliff.

Always, _always_ Cliff.

Cliff was the everything, the beginning, the ending, and the meaningful something in the nothingness. 

The light in the dark. 

Cliff smiled. Cliff stared.

Cliff said, “I love you Lars.”

Lars fell into his arms, and into this world. 

Warm, never cold. 

The chaos of spring. Brisk April wind and bright April sun. Blooming flowers, blooming trees, and Cliff saying, “I love you Lars.” 

Lars saying, “I love you too.”

The sun went down. The sky changed colors. Lars watched the sun transform into the moon, in Cliff’s arms. Then it transformed back into the sun. Then back to the moon. Purple and black and a lit up Manhattan and a bright San Francisco and his home of Copenhagen, places they loved, places they made love in, and Cliff was happy, Cliff was his, he and Cliff, Cliff and Lars, Lars and Cliff, off into the sun and waking up to a sky bluish-orange-pink. 

_I want it._

_I want it all._

_It all happened._

Cliff, between his legs. Lars, naked beneath him. 

Sunlight. No sunlight. Closed curtains. Open curtains. Somewhere on tour. Somewhere out in space. Somewhere else, in another world, in another time, and Cliff stared down and said, “I love you, Lars.”

Lars covered his mouth with his. 

He always said something.

Cliff always said something beautiful.

He was as beautiful as the sky and the sun, as endless as the clouds and the stars itself. More filling than the blackness, more meaningful than the nothingness. He was beyond his time, beyond this world, this universe even. He was a galaxy unto itself, and Lars was just one of many stars inside him. 

But Cliff loved Lars. Cliff was his. He was Cliff’s. 

Lars rose his hands up.

How it always was.

How it always will be.

_I can make everything better._

Cliff smiled.

Lars slammed his hands down.

And the world became his. Engulfed in his hands and buried into his chest, right into his soul, over his heart. The light of the world, the darkness of the universe, it was all his—and theirs. Cliff and Lars’s. The sky and the ocean, the leaves and the dirt itself, the stars and the night and the day. They could do anything. They could appear wherever. Live everywhere. Die whenever. Die never. 

Cliff would never die.

Cliff will never die.

Cliff lived in forever.

Cliff _was_ forever. 

“Cliff…”

At the base of the Methuselah tree, Cliff stood there, and smiled.

Lars embraced him.

“I made it right.”

He stared up at him. Into his eyes. At his face.

“I made it better.”

And when it all went forward again, that cold September morning never, ever happened. 

They made it to Copenhagen. They made it to Lars’s home. 

They ate breakfast with Lars’s parents, who never divorced, and Lars’s uncle and aunt and many cousins. They played the show. The fans were happy. The world was happy. 

The band never mattered. Kirk and James, they never mattered. 

Soon, in the years that passed, it was only he and Cliff. Cliff and him. The two of them, together, forever, exploring the world, hand-in-hand, body-to-body, as they were meant to be. As if they were meant to be. 

Cliff was still beautiful the older he got. Wrinkles on his face. Grey lines in his red hair. His hands got arthritis. He had to have neck surgery, twice. He still wore denim. He loved denim. 

He loved Lars too, and always said, “I love you.” Never made Lars forget. Never made Lars feel alone, ever. 

And Lars, too, loved Cliff. Lars got older, got more pudge, lost a good chunk of his hair, but Cliff loved him. 

“I love you too,” he said. “I love you so much, Cliff.”

Never any Kirk around. Never any James around. Forget the band. Forget the fans. Forget the world.

They grew up together. They grew old together. They lived together. 

They were together.

They were happy.

Lars was happy. 

_I made it right._

_I made it better._

_The way it’s supposed to be._

_The way it should be._

_The way it was meant._

And years and years and years later, they came back to Methuselah, in some month, some other time in spring, probably March, definitely March, had to be March. Back in March, back to Methuselah, back to the place they first made love to, all those years and years and years ago, and it was hard for the two of them, climbing the whole way to the tree. Their legs were older. Their bodies were older. 

The tree never, ever aged a bit. The tree never, ever lost its power. 

Cliff stood at the base of the tree, running his hand down its old bark. “I guess I’m as old as this tree now, huh?”

“So am I.”

“Still short too.”

“Oi!”

Cliff laughed. 

Lars laughed.

They were too old to make love again. They kissed at the base of the tree though. Kissed like their first time, at their second gig, somewhere in the far, far past. It was beautiful. It was theirs. Their moment, their memory. 

But Cliff was old.

Cliff was young, and old, and… 

Lars held Cliff’s face in his hands. 

The wrinkles. The age. Aging forever. 

Age later. 

Age younger. Age backwards. 

“I can make it better,” he whispered. 

“What?”

Lars stared. He slid his hands into Cliff’s hair. “I’ll make it forever.” And he kissed him.

Then Cliff’s heart stopped beating.

It began again, in another March, in another time. 

Another universe, with Cliff rebuilt, and Cliff reborn, again. 

There was a band. There was the tree. Cliff was still the same. But they met and made love on the first gig, and then quit the band, and they moved on and moved in together and explored the world together and Cliff died—

And then there was no band. There was the tree, where Cliff and he made love under for the first time. Lars and Cliff enjoyed music, but not enough to make something of it. It was a dream. It was too far-fetched. They had other things to do. Other places to explore. They had each other, and then Cliff died—

Then there was no band. No tree. 

Lars and Cliff met at a coffee shop. Then they met a library. A concert. A bar. 

Each time, Cliff always stared at him.

Each time, Cliff came to him.

Each time, they kissed, they fucked, they lived together.

But Cliff kept dying.

Cliff kept dying first. 

Each and every time. Each and every moment. 

Cliff always died first. 

Cliff always left Lars alone.

Cliff always left Lars behind.

Cliff was never there.

Cliff never cared.

_Cliff…_

Always a different outcome. A different way they lived, and of course, a different way Cliff died. 

Each time, Lars was by his side. Each time, Lars held his hand and stared at him until the heart beat no more. 

Sometimes, they didn’t go for a diagnosis. Sometimes, Lars laid with Cliff, until he could begin them again. 

Sometimes, there was a doctor. Sometimes, there were reasons why Cliff was the way he was. 

“You have depression,” he would say.

“You have a disease,” he would say.

“You have lung cancer,” he would say.

And on the forty-eighth time, the forty-eighth rebirth and death, the forty-eighth appearance and check-in and the doctor checking Cliff out and turning to them and staring at Lars, the doctor stared right at him with his blue eyes, sharp bright blue eyes, and scowled and Lars turned as cold as black ice when the doctor sneered the words he hated. 

“You are so full of shit.”

“NO!”

Then the sky crashed into the Earth. 

The mountains flattened and the seas turned to ash. 

People evaporated. Light submitted to Dark. 

And the nothingness was there, waiting for Lars, waiting for him this entire time, the empty black nothingness he came to know and understand and fear, real fear, where it feasted on the moon and chewed on the sun and sucked up the colors and the stars and all the galaxies, all the universes, everything, everything, until Lars stood alone in the blackness, the nothingness, and said, “No, no, no more, please, no more, not again, I had it right, I had everything right, I had _everything_ the way it was supposed to be, please, let me go back, let me have him, let me save him—”

Fingers touched his lips.

Lars looked ahead. Looked up.

James pulled his hand back.

Older James. Older, wiser James. 

James, who shook his head no.

James, who looked so sad.

James, who cupped his cheek and said—

Lars shoved him hard in his chest.

He turned and ran into the darkness, into the nothingness, out into the ether, the unknown, and ignored the blackness, the loneliness, he didn’t care, he never cared, no one cared, he was alone, he had to be alone, he couldn’t—

“You can’t rewrite forever.”

James’s voice.

“You’re so full of shit.”

James’s yell. 

James in front of him.

James around him.

Everywhere, there was James.

Everywhere, the truth.

“You changed.”

James glared. 

Lars pushed forward harder. Ran faster. Out into nowhere, into nothing, nearly collapsing, nearly falling, but running, running faster, and faster, getting away, getting out, getting to—

Then James shouted.

“You changed _EVERYTHING._ ”

Lars screamed and fell to his knees. 

He punched the ground beneath him. 

His fists burned. His knuckles hurt.

_Crack._

_CRACK._

The ground cracking.

Skin peeled off with each punch. Sweat fell. 

_**CRACK.** _

Numbness.

Nothingness.

His wet hands. Wet, sweaty knuckles, and fingers, and his fists, faltering, faltering punches, falling over, falling onto his forearms, falling into himself, curling into himself, hugging himself. 

_Cliff…_

Lars looked up.

Older James. Younger James. Every James. Every single James, from every single memory, every single moment, surrounding him, engulfing him, filling up this void, this nothingness.

James stood in front of him.

Lars stared. 

James shook his head and crossed his arms.

And one by one, all the James’s spoke.

“You’re so full of shit.” “You can’t rewrite forever.” “You changed.” “You changed everything.” “You were not allowed.” “Stop making it about you.” “It’s not about you.” “You’re being selfish.” “You are selfish.” “You won’t stop.” “You never stop.” “You idiot.” “You have to end it.” “You have to move on.” “You have to.” “Do it.” “End it.” “Stop it, Lars.”

The James in front of him knelt down. The voice of the other James’s echoed off each other, echoed in his mind, echoes—everywhere, echoes.

He touched Lars’s cheek.

Lars’s face burned up. 

James leaned in. 

James looked so sad.

James rubbed his thumb, over his cheekbone.

Lars’s vision blurred.

Then James whispered the truth. 

“Stop lying to yourself.”

Lars squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his neck. 

The hand on his cheek slid to his chin, tilting it up. The voices faded away, one by one. 

When he opened his eyes again, James stared at him—right through him, to a place deep inside that he never wanted to acknowledge, but knew was there, and it was recognized and touched and poked and prodded wide open with James’s question. 

“Do you really want to keep living like this?” 

_Yes._

_Yes, I do._

_I want to._

_I need to._

_I have to. Because…_

“Look at you, Lars. Look at what you’ve made. What you’ve done.”

_I didn’t do anything. I’m not like you, or Kirk. I don’t cry over him every night. I don’t check on him all the time. I just… I only wanted…_

_He deserved better. I deserved better. We deserved better._

_It’s what I want, James._

_It’s what’s right._

_It’s…_

James stared, right through him.

Lars stared back.

Then James spoke more truth.

“You can’t keep him alive anymore.”

Lars twisted his head away—but James’s hand twisted it back. 

Fingers pinched his chin. 

Lars’s vision blurred when James said, “You can’t keep playing God anymore.”

“Fuck you.”

“You know that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’m not.”

“Lars—“

“Go away.”

“There’s nowhere else to go.” 

“Yes there is. There always is. I can make it happen. I can make it—”

“You know it’ll mean shit. You know it means nothing.”

“But I can do it. I can still do it!”

James pulled his hand away. 

He shook his head no.

Stood up.

Lars looked up. Blinked the tears out of his vision.

“Why can’t I, James? Why can’t I change the past? It’s what I want.”

“You should know. You always do this.”

“Do what?”

James turned away.

“James. Tell me. What do I do?”

Then James disappeared. 

James was gone.

Tears fell down Lars’s cheek, to his chin. 

Lars stared into the darkness. The nothingness. 

“Tell me. Please.”

An echo reached his ear. James’s echo. 

“What for? You never stop.”

And it never did stop. The darkness revolted and melted and the universe began again. Time began again. Lars went back to the beginning, back to where it all started, with he and Cliff and the show and the first gig and the second gig and the first and second kisses and that awkward weird awful first time and the Methuselah tree and the White Mountains of Inyo County and the stars and the moon and Wyoming, the truck on black ice and the bus on black ice, Copenhagen and the albums and the shows, the women and the guys in the crew and the band itself, the touring and the world and the seasons, January and February, March and April, May lasting forever, June lasting too short, July and August going on and on and on, like stones rolling up and down a hill, pushed up and pushed down, these circular waves just like oceans, until came September, September, September September September and Cliff, Cliff again, Cliff never lasting, Cliff ever lasting, Cliff at the end at the bottom at the very edge at the edge of forever and never and Cliff staring and Cliff smiling and Cliff whispering his name, his love, his end, his goodbye, his arm waving goodbye and Lars… 

Lars stared at his hands.

Wrinkled, aged, and old. Aged later. Aged to now. The correct now. The way it really was. Not should be or could be. The way it actually was. The way he actually was.

Forty-seven times tried. Forty-seven times denied.

On the forty-eighth time, at forty-eight years old.

Twenty-five years, since Cliff died.

Below Lars’s knees, there were cracks on the floor. Cracks made by his hands. His bloodied, blistered hands. 

He pulled at the floor, like pulling bark from an old tree, and out came red, just red, oozing out and over the ground, spilling out and covering the world and soaking his sore legs and his stinging knees like rich, fresh water, but it smelled horrible, it smelled awful, it smelled like… 

_Death._

Lars sunk his hands into the red.

He pulled out dead brown leaves. Leaves left Methuselah’s branches. 

His fingers crushed them in his hand, and when he unfurled, sprinkles of denim blue and bright red stuck to his skin. 

Then they turned grey. As grey as ash. 

His skin turned to grey ash. 

With the last of his strength, Lars forced himself to his feet. The red ate up the black, until all there was bled red, the sky above, the floor below, all around him, everywhere, red. 

Red, like Cliff’s hair. Like blood. 

Twenty-five years, after twenty-four years old. 

Cliff was only twenty-four. 

Lars was only twenty-three.

Twenty-five years later. Twenty-five years tried. 

Everything denied.

With his eyes towards the red sky, out towards the light of where a red sun would be, Lars walked forward. He walked on and on, for what felt like miles, trudging through the red, the oozing red that clung to his ankles and his feet. He walked forward, walked forever, using every last bit of himself and his heart and his soul until he could walk no more and fell to his knees again, his hands crashing into the red. 

He sobbed.

He cried.

He curled up unto himself and sobbed and cried, pulling at his face, his hair, clawing his cheeks and pouring the red all over himself and his being and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Lars looked up and reached to the red sky and the red sun. 

His arms became branches. Dry, leaveless branches. His feet dug into the ground, into the Earth, the soil and the dirt, rooting himself down, deep down, miles and miles down. 

He cried wood tears, long trails of sticky sap that stuck to his rough skin, drying up and shriveling up just like his skin, his skin that turned to the color of ash, brown and ash, and he stared up, stared out, stared ahead and into the universe and the blackness that turned to red, to pure red, and cried out, “Help me. Someone. Please.”

James, out in the distance.

Cliff, out in the distance.

Lars sobbed again.

“Help me.”

But Cliff disappeared.

James disappeared. 

He was alone.

Absolutely alone.

The truth, in real loneliness. 

Lars swayed back and forth with the breeze and sobbed again, and again, until the tree and he became one, and his cries were heard no more. 


	13. Equinox

Nothing. 

Nothingness. 

Emptiness, nothing.

Living in red. Bathed in red. 

For once, he missed the blackness. 

His arms, his legs. Didn’t feel them. Couldn’t. They were gone. He was gone. Elsewhere. Somewhere. 

Some place different. Some other time. 

He felt a thousand and more years old. As old as the universe. As old as time. As tired as time.

Old, tired, and alone.

All alone.

Lars sunk deeper.

Alone…

Then—

_Lars._

_Lars._

His name.

_Lars…_

He heard his name.

_Lars…_

_Wake up…_

_Wake up, Lars._

_Wake up._

So he opened his eyes.

He found a red sky, and a red sun, in a red world. 

His skin turned gold, in the red light. His skin—his arms and legs, his body, stuck to the ground. To the water. The red water. 

He was floating. Floating in red water, staring at a red sky, and a red sun.

And there was Methuselah. 

Methuselah, in the distance, the water running at the base of the tree, the water leading to the tree, and Lars floated towards it. Floated to Methuselah. Always waiting, Methuselah, waiting for him. 

The inevitable. The forever. 

He looked back up at the sky.

Red clouds, too, in the red light. Red sun. 

As red as blood. As red as wine. 

He shut his eyes.

Floating. Waiting. 

The inevitable…

_Lars._

_Wake up, Lars._

_Lars._

_Lars, wake up._

He felt weight on his shoulders.

Gentle pressure.

_Wake up._

_You’re okay._

_Wake up._

_Please._

_Please, Lars, wake up._

So he did. 

He came face-to-face with James. 

The older James. The right James. 

James, above him. James, with his hands on his shoulders. James, kneeling beside him, in the water, the red water, his skin as gold as his own, and his eyes golden-blue. 

James, who smiled at him.

James, who leaned down to him.

James, who stopped him, before reaching Methuselah. 

James was always there.

James always cared.

James never went away. 

James always stayed. 

This James. His James. 

James. James.

“James…”

He cupped Lars’s cheek. “You’re okay, Lars.” His thumb rubbed his cheekbone. “It’s okay.”

His vision blurred. _No it’s not_ , he wanted to say. _It’s never going to be. I fucked up. I’m a fuck up. I ruined everything. I did this. I did everything wrong. It was me. It was always me._

“Always me…”

James looked so sad.

James, also, looked relieved, but so, so sad.

The hand on his cheek cupped the back of his neck, lifting his head out of the water. 

“It’s okay.”

James filled up his whole, blurry vision.

“Let it out, Lars.”

Red and gold and blue.

James’s beautiful smile.

James. James.

Lars sobbed.

James whispered, “Let him go.”

Then he kissed him.

And Lars cried again. Lars lifted his arms up with all his strength and cried into the kiss, cried in James’s arms, James’s arms that held him up, James’s arms that held him close, James who listened, who loved him, who needed him, who didn’t even know, who never even _knew_ what Lars knew, what Lars held back for this long, for so long, but now it was time, now it had to be done, to be told, to tell James, to tell the person he trusted, the person he really loved, the person who needed to know what Lars knew, what Lars held, deep inside, for so long. 

_Let it out_ , James told him.

_I’m here for you._

_I love you._

_It’s okay._

_It’ll be okay._

_You’re okay, Lars._

_I understand._

_I don’t mind._

_I can wait._

_You don’t have to tell me, I can wait…_

Lars dug his fingers into James—into his hair, his back, his skin, his body. He pulled the two of them together until he couldn’t breathe, until James couldn’t breathe. 

I can wait, James said.

I don’t mind.

I love you, Lars.

I love you.

Lars pulled back and away from James.

He looked beyond James’s shoulder to the red sky, and the red sun, to the face of Methuselah, its branches bleeding bright red, bleeding its sap and its insides out into the water, the liquid as rich as wine. 

“No more,” he whispered. 

Methuselah’s branches waved and rattled. 

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

Lars clung to James’s back. 

Lars looked at Cliff and said, “No more lying.”

Cliff smiled. 

*

And what happened twenty-five years ago began again, one last time, the way it happened. The way it actually was.

Lars and James went to the Whiskey-A-Go-Go in Los Angeles on a Tuesday evening. San Francisco Metal Night was the theme, and Trauma was playing. They were OK, but the real star was Cliff, something Lars had never seen before. All wild red hair and denim and eyes rolling into the back of his head, turning the bass into a wild beast of guitar wail for minutes.

Somehow, Lars got a hold of Cliff’s number, and started calling him. Cliff wasn’t so eager in joining. Trauma was doing well. They might get a record deal.

Then Ron found out about their ‘courting’ and told James to pack up his shit and leave. 

Cliff agreed, as long as they moved up to the Bay Area. So they did, moving into 3132 Carlson Boulevard, in El Cerrito, where James and Lars shared a room.

They practiced. They jammed. They had their first gig.

On the second gig, Cliff and Lars had their first kiss. 

It was awkward. It was weird. Lars didn’t understand. Lars didn’t know why.

Cliff never said anything. Lars never said anything.

All the fumblings came after. The weird tension between them. The sexual tension. Cliff wanted him, Lars realized that, Cliff really wanted him, and Lars was curious, and afraid, and confused, but Cliff was cool, Cliff was really chill, Cliff was kinda hot too. 

Then came the first time. That awful, weird, not-good first time. 

Lars and all his whys. Lars never understanding why. 

The years that followed. One by one, passing on by in jerky frames, flashing snapshots of memories on top of memories, moments on top of moments. The gigs they did, the women they scored, the friendships they made, the people they met, the places they went to. Dave kicked out, Kirk in the band, and albums and recording and music—and James. Everything James and nothing Cliff. James and him, sharing rooms in Europe, James and him, going to the Bahamas, James and Lars, Lars and James. The way it was. The way it actually happened. 

Then came 1986.

Then came the spring. 

March or April. Maybe May. 

And Cliff brought it back. Cliff asked, “Can we start again?” And Lars was curious enough to say, “Okay.” Because he never understood why. Never got why. 

Forty-eight hours later, he didn’t need to ever know the answer to the why. Lars brought an end to it all, again, telling Cliff, “No more.”

Cliff asked, “Why?”

Lars laughed. “You should know,” he said, and never thought of it again. By then, his whole world became James, and James only. 

Cliff was an afterthought. Cliff was a mistake. Cliff did Cliff things, Cliff went off and did whatever, Lars didn’t care, Lars never cared, just like Cliff never cared, and Cliff had his friends, Cliff became closer to James and Kirk, and Lars didn’t care less. Lars was too busy. Lars had things to do. Lars sometimes was jealous of Kirk and Cliff, and James and Cliff—especially James and Cliff—but he was too busy to pay attention. Too busy to really focus on it. There was the Ozzy tour, James breaking his arm, finding a replacement in John Marshall—Cliff was nowhere in his mind. Cliff was just there. It was just Cliff. Just Cliff. 

Then came September.

September.

That September.

Stockholm, Sweden. September 26th, 1986. 

James’s arm was better and out of the cast. James played again. They clicked as a band. They were on fire. It was a great show. A great night. 

That evening, Lars was busy. Lars had things to do, as usual. Meet fans, mingle with people, check with the promoter, check with their managers. James and Kirk were in the bus, waiting for him. 

Cliff lingered behind, though. 

Cliff lingered along with him. 

Cliff was doing his own thing, like Lars was doing his own thing, and Lars thought nothing of it. There was nothing there to look into. Cliff was being Cliff, Lars was being Lars.

They finished at about the same time. 

Together, they were the last two on the bus. 

As a band, they watched a movie. They drank beer and ate some food, while the bus drove on into the night, out of Stockholm, onward to Copenhagen. 

Lars was excited and happy to go home. He had to see his family. Had to show the guys around some more places. Couldn’t wait to play a great gig and blow his home country away again. 

They drew cards. Cliff got Kirk’s bunk. They jeered and made fun of each other. Light banter. Usual stuff on a usual night.

James went to bed first. Didn’t care about finishing the movie. 

Kirk went after. He’d seen it before.

Cliff and Lars were the only two left awake. The only ones left in the back of the bus. Alone. 

They finished watching the movie. They talked, like friends. He didn’t remember what they talked about. It was so long ago. It didn’t matter anymore. But he remembered, they acted like friends. It felt nice. It felt comfortable. For once, Lars felt connected to Cliff, like he hadn’t in the past few months, or past year, and it was needed, and nice, and comfortable, and he liked it. He treasured it. 

When the credits rolled, Lars turned off the TV.

Cliff stood up to leave, to go to his new bunk for the night.

Lars took the tape out and put it in the VHS box again. His back was turned to Cliff. 

“Night,” Lars said.

“G’night,” Cliff said.

He put the tape down. 

He turned around.

Then, Cliff said, “Hey Lars?”

Lars looked ahead. 

Cliff stared.

Lars stared.

Lars said, “Yeah?”

Silence. Empty silence.

Cliff, staring, and looking, like he always did.

Lars stared back. 

The bus jumped. The bus swayed.

The bus, under their feet. 

Then Cliff said, in a voice Lars never heard from him before, “I’m so sorry.” 

“For what?”

Cliff smiled, in a way Lars never saw from him before either—a small, sad smile, that spoke the words Cliff never, ever said to him, in the years they had. 

“You should know.”

It hit Lars like a sucker-punch, right through his chest, his heart, and he gasped. 

“I wish I hadn’t fucked up.”

Cliff was saying something. 

“I should’ve known better.”

Cliff was finally saying something. 

“But I was a fucking idiot. And I’m sorry Lars. I’m sorry for what I did to you.”

Lars stared.

Lars was frozen cold. 

Lars could say nothing.

But Cliff did. 

“Too little, too late, right?”

Cliff laughed. Cliff laughed at himself.

Cliff looked so sad. So guilty.

Lars stared.

Lars was frozen solid cold.

Then Cliff stared at him, right through him, right to his heart and soul, and said the words that haunted Lars for twenty-five years.

“If I could do it again—do it right, that is… do you think we could’ve…?”

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to slap him. 

He stood and stared instead.

Cliff stared back. 

The bus, bouncing and swaying. The ground, moving underneath their feet. 

Silence between them, except for the road that surrounded them. 

Then Lars licked his dry lips and said, “I don’t know. Maybe.” He shrugged, and then smiled. “In another universe.” 

Cliff smiled too. “Yeah. Another universe.”

For a moment, he wanted to hug him. For a moment, he wanted to hold him, one more time. But that was the past. That was over and done with. They were over and done with.

So Lars watched Cliff turn around. Lars heard Cliff say, “Good night, Lars,” over his shoulder.

Lars said back, “Night, Cliff.”

The door shut. 

And that was it.

The end. The real end of Lars and Cliff.

*

Twenty-five years later, while Kirk and James recounted the morning after to friends and cameramen and interviewers and Phil the therapist, talking about a blanket and the bus on its side and the black ice that was never found, Lars stayed quiet. Lars honored Cliff. Lars told some stories, here and there, over the years. Otherwise, he said nothing. 

People thought he was never close to Cliff. People sometimes thought he never cared about Cliff. Some people, some very few, very minor people, thought he never liked Cliff.

They never knew the truth. They never really knew. 

They never knew how Cliff’s mother Jan gave him some of Cliff’s things. How Jan told him, “He would have wanted you to have that. We know about…” But she, too didn’t know. Didn’t really know, like how he didn’t really ever know—didn’t ever know that Cliff actually told someone. Actually told his mother, his father, and his sister, that he was with Lars, for a little bit. That the last relationship Cliff ever had was with him, and it was enough for Jan to give Lars some of Cliff’s belongings. Like his jacket. 

Lars meant that much to Cliff. And he never knew. He never knew, until too late. Too little, too late. 

He never knew, like they never knew. Cliff’s parents, Cliff’s sister, James and Kirk, Jason later and even Rob, all their friends, all of their families, they never knew anything. They would never know anything. Especially James. They were not in 1985 anymore anyway. And what was born again sometime during spring of 1986 died even before slipping on ice. Lars killed it himself. James stomped on it.

And yet, Cliff was there.

Cliff was still there. 

Cliff’s words, and his looks, were in his mind, and his heart, and his soul—they were still there. Not just in James’s memories. Not just in Kirk’s stories. 

Cliff was always there, in Lars.

Cliff asking, “Can we start again?”

Cliff saying, “Why?”

Cliff telling him, “I wish I hadn’t fucked up.”

Cliff confessing, “I should’ve known better.”

Everything he thought he knew and he never, ever knew about Cliff. It was all there, in Lars’s mind. All there, in his head. For twenty-five years.

Especially that last question. 

The question that haunted Lars for years. The question that made Lars never want to talk about Cliff, never want to think about him or bring it up, never want to go back, never want to go that deep, and yet when he did, when he thought of Cliff, when he remembered Cliff, of what he and Cliff had done, of what had happened, then came the question, the godawful question Cliff asked him that late night, that morning of September 27th, 1986, and it burned Lars alive, as it echoed in his brain, throughout the years: 

“If I could do it again—do it right, that is… do you think we could’ve…?”

Lars hugged himself.

Lars curled into himself.

Lars knelt down, at the base of the Methuselah tree. 

“I don’t know, Cliff,” he whispered. “I’ll never know.”

James hugged him from behind, his chin resting on his shoulders, his strong arms squeezing his weak body tight. 

Lars touched James’s fingers and looked up through Methuselah’s branches, into the blue sky that belonged to the White Mountains of Inyo County.

He shut his eyes. 

“And I’m never supposed to know. Ever.”

The wind rustled hard. He heard Methuselah moan and groan, heard its massive branches sway and creak. The ground rattled and gave way under him. He heard the world, its sounds, its waves, felt the light and the fire, the darkness and the cold. Everything under his knees, under his fingertips—the universe itself, the universe he came to know so well, the universe he created and lived in—he felt it collapsing and restarting, felt it rebuilding and deconstructing, under and above and around him. Back to where it began. The way it had to be. The way he had to be. The way it always was. And he was okay with it. He was finally okay.

James kissed his cheek. 

“You did it, Lars,” he whispered. “You’re free.”

Lars smiled as it all lurched forward, for the last time. 


	14. Last Threnody

In the White Mountains of Inyo county, on the eastern side of California, in the summer of the year 2011, James and Lars stood at the base of a very large bristlecone pine tree called Methuselah. They once saw the tree, back in the old days. Jim Martin pointed it out to them in passing. It was old and craggly, its leafless branches twisting up high into the sky, its chunky base large and rough to touch, but it was beautiful. In its own weird way, it was beautiful.

It was here that Lars told James the untold true story of Cliff and him. 

He started with the sun up. He finished with the sun almost gone. 

James was, for the most part, quiet. He didn’t say anything with his voice. He said it with his looks—sometimes in anger, sometimes in confusion. Most of the time, in sadness. Occasionally, he sighed. Occasionally, he looked ready to cry. But he was, for the most part, quiet. He was listening. He was understanding. 

When Lars finished, James finally spoke, and asked, “Why did you keep lying to yourself?”

“So I knew it wasn’t a mistake. So I knew he cared.” He looked away, up and into Methuselah’s branches. “I don’t get it, James. Why me? Why not anyone else? He could’ve been with anyone else, and instead, he chose me.”

“You need to let it go.”

“I know, okay? I’m trying. Fuck, I’ve been trying for the past twenty-five years. And it’s not like I’m holding a candle for him either. I don’t think I am, anyway, but—look.” He sighed. “There’s the way I wanted it to be, and there’s the way it actually was. Sometimes I know I’m deluding myself, you know, believing the shit I know isn’t real. Because there was no basis to this. To any of this. And I’ll never get an answer why. I don’t care that we never worked out. I don’t care that we had sex. I loved Cliff—I think I loved him, I still don’t fucking know if I ever really did, because whatever we could’ve had was basically dead before it even began. We were both young, and stupid, and I didn’t know or understand what I had then. I didn’t know what we were, and I don’t think he did either. That’s when I start guessing. That’s when I start coming up with all the reasons why he chose me, and why it happened. Was it convenient to him? Was there actual attraction? But he’s dead now. And I’ll never know. I’ll never get to ask him why. But that’s not the worst of it. That’s not the real problem.”

“What is it then?”

A gust of summer wind.

Lars looked down. 

He stared at the base of the Methuselah tree.

“Everything that happened between him and I was just that. Between the two of us. Like, I could tell stories, I could say I have dreams about him, but going into those details, telling what happened— it’s not like it would cheapen what we had. I just didn’t want to talk about him because that’s how it always was. No one was supposed to know we were ever together. Only after his death did I learn his parents and his sister knew. I never told anyone, not even Torben or my mom. Hell, Torben still doesn’t know. But that’s how I was. That’s how I felt we were supposed to be—what he wanted us to be. So why tell everyone Cliff and I were together? When would that even matter? Who the fuck would care? Why fucking bother anyway, uh? And again, it was between us. So I decided, in his memory, I would keep what we had the way it began, with no one else knowing. It made sense. It was the way it always was. The way it would always be.” 

He reached out and touched Methuselah’s bark.

His fingers skipped down the old bark. 

“But that’s when it hit me.”

Lars’s fingers caught in a piece sticking out.

He pinched his fingers on its end and pulled. 

“If I really was over him…”

_Crack._

“If I really didn’t care anymore…”

In the palm of his hand, he crushed the piece of bark. 

His fingers unfurled. Grey ash stuck to his palms.

“I wouldn’t have held it a secret for twenty-five years. I would’ve told someone by now.” 

The wind blew again.

“I would have told you. Instead…”

It blew the pieces off his skin, out into the world. 

Gone forever.

His hand shook. 

Lars twisted it into a tight, curled fist.

He hissed through his teeth. His breathing labored. 

He choked out, “I still miss him.”

His fist collided with the base of the tree. 

“I still fucking miss him.”

He hit it again, with the other fist. Then again. And again. 

One last hit, and Lars gave up, slumping onto the tree. His cheek scratched on the bark, his fingers clawing and clutching at its sides. 

“And I hate myself for it. I fucking hate myself for feeling this way, because I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to live in the past. I can’t do anything to change what happened. I can’t fix shit.”

Gentle hands touched his shoulders.

Lars squeezed his eyes shut. 

“But God, do I wish I could, James. I wish I could fix that wrong so much, and I never can. I’ll never be able to, and I hate it. I hate wanting to change this, and knowing I can’t, and knowing it’s stupid, and knowing it’s a fucking waste of time, and yet I want to. Deep down, I wish I could fix it, and I fucking can’t.” 

“I know.”

“I hate it so much, James.”

“Shh.” Those hands slid over his chest, pulling him away from the tree. “It’s okay.”

He sobbed, “I hate it.”

All his strength left him when James pressed his chest to Lars’s back. He fell into James’s embrace, felt safe when James tightened his hold around his torso and kissed the side of his cheek, the side of his neck, the back of his head. He felt better, with each warm breath that spread across the back of his head, the warm breath that came from James’s nose, pressed into his scalp. 

James’s hands rubbed his chest. James’s arms held him up.

James was here.

Not alone.

Never again.

He sunk into James’s embrace and let it all go.

By the time Lars calmed down and felt ready to leave, the sun was gone, the moon had arrived, and the night and its cold made its appearance, chilling his body to the bone.

James steered the two of them away, an arm around Lars’s waist.

As they walked away, back to James’s truck, Lars mumbled, “That tree.”

“What about it?”

“It's named after the oldest person to ever live.” Lars looked out into the blackness, the empty black nothingness. “Imagine living that long, James. To stay forever, rooted in the same place...”

James’s hand gripped his side tight. 

“But you won’t.” He kissed his temple, and whispered, “You’re free, Lars.”

Lars smiled, tears falling down his cheeks. 

James whispered again, “You’re free.”

He shut his eyes and let James lead him away. 

They never looked back as they drove off together, away from the darkness of the mountains and the heavy shadows of the Methuselah tree, returning to the world, and the universe they knew. 


End file.
